


Tears of an Angel

by Maraudercat



Series: Songs of Sorrow [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 113,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraudercat/pseuds/Maraudercat
Summary: Wiress Ling has survived the 48th Hunger Games. Now she must live with the consequences of her victory, the mental scarring and the terrible task of mentoring young children to their deaths. Sequel to Amazing Grace.DISCLAIMER: Anything you recognize belongs to Suzanne Collins and others who hold rights to the Hunger Games.





	1. Chapter 1

The sun is shining rare gold today, casting the carved stone letters into sharp relief as I walk along the rows of the dead. It's a walk that has become far too common in the last months, but every time I return home I feel I've paid a small part of the debt.

There is nothing living in District Three besides the people and a handful of stray dogs, cats, rats and some insects that roam the rubbish heaps for the few scraps that somehow get thrown out. A few have been showing themselves at the Victors' Village of late, now that my little brother Malcy roams about dropping crumbs outside.

Out here in the district cemetery the dead earth at least seems appropriate. Despite the heavy rains of the last three weeks there is still no sign of anything green creeping up from the cracked ground. Apart from me, the only color is the rare faded flower resting on a stone nameplate.

I've been making the walk every week with a handful of fresh blooms imported from District One. The unwanted remains of the weekly purchases by factory overseers and peacekeepers, they are still too expensive for anyone but a Victor. There are four graves I always visit, those I owe the most. The rest go wherever, a pretty name, a young age, a lonely corner as I wander.

I only have six left when I reach my second permanent stop. Grandma Tolsey, my mother's mother who taught us to sing and looked after us when our parents were busy at work or ill. Her grave is the least painful to visit as she passed some years back, an old woman, happy enough to go find Grandpa again. Her grave is in the block that belongs to our former residence area, nearly a mile from the Village. I drop another flower on a stone with a familiar surname to our old neighbours.

The next is still a recent wound, a stop on my walk for just these last two weeks. Wiran Ling, my little nephew who lasted only eleven days in the world before the sickness took him, coughing and hacking, to a tiny grave. Laney is still bedridden from the early birth and terrible illness, and Ezra has only been up and about these last few days. Both are heartbroken, especially since they were too sick to attend their own child's funeral, however brief the interment was.

My last stop is nearly half a mile on, through three more areas to the graves of those who work in the packaging factories. I drop another bright red flower on a stone that is scuffed and stained by mud splatter before I reach the last of my consistent stops. Stata Wash, Stuvek's older sister who I saw at my own reaping. I kept my final promise to my deceased district partner and visited her apartment three days after I returned, only to find her body in partial decay, a dried pool of blood on the floor by her slashed wrist. Her father's corpse was just as bad, mottled purple and green-gray from the illness that had finally killed him.

I was still fairly desensitized to death, so their lifeless bodies didn't send me into a state of panic at the time. They've been turning up in my nightmares often enough in the months since that I wish I'd taken up Ezra's offer to come with me. In a way I am almost glad that she did end it all and whenever I wake from one of those dreams I try to imagine them together, a happy family again.

The last flower goes to a girl named Bria, who would have been nine from the carved stone dates I brush clear of gray dust. I circle her stone and start the long walk back home, letting the golden light soak into my skin and humming gently to myself as I crunch along the dirt path. Malcy will be at school by now, Balia and Mother already on their way home from dropping him off. My sister got the day off school to see me away, but we all agreed that Malcy would be scared by the cameras and reporters and the last thing we needed was one of his tantrums. Father will be at work too, covering a shift for one of his sick friends. He still works part-time, bringing in a little money besides my Games winnings and, more importantly, still staying on the roster. If something happens to me they will be forced to move back to the old apartment and make do without my pension.

Pella and Ezra opted to stay in their own places, or our old place in Pella's case, still working their shifts as well. Both do microchip assembly, as do most in our old neighborhood, and like it well enough. Ezra and Laney visited two or three nights a week until she became too heavy to walk, so it didn't feel like I'd lost my older brother.

The rest of us moved into the new house, reveling in the space and accessories now available to us. It means a longer journey for Balia to our old school as she wanted to keep her friends, and each area of the district tends to focus on a particular aspect of manufacture. Malcy started at the closer school about two months ago and seems to like it well enough. He's gotten better with communicating, and now speaks to myself, Ezra and mother unprompted maybe once or twice a week. He answers questions from all the family and, more importantly, his teacher about a quarter of the time, which is a massive improvement from six months ago, back when he first spoke to me.

According to Damia, my psychiatrist, he has a combination of brain damage from his birth and a touch of something called Outism. He's been making better progress than I have with his problems. Damia calls once or twice a week to check up on me and to go through the speech therapy exercises that will apparently help. I haven't noticed much improvement yet, though my family has gotten fairly good at deciphering half-finished sentences and obscure hand-waving gestures. Balia in particular can nearly always follow my train of thought, the same way she could always understand Malcy. To my surprise Malcon also seems to follow fairly easily when he's in one of his good moods. We both have messed up brains, so maybe that helps. Beetee too is good at guessing where I'm trying to get to, especially when we're talking shop.

I went back to my senior science and innovation classes for a week before giving up and retreating to Beetee's workshop instead, though Miss Tafter still sent along the assignments and final exams. I miss working with Julez a little, but he, like many others, seems half-scared of me and what I've become. The fact that he was dragged out by the media storm as my male school-friend probably didn't help, though there's never been anything like that between us. Some of the other boys started quoting things at him the second day when we were walking back from classes and after that he told me he was walking home alone. Once he and Laue graduated, both into the design rooms that I had always assumed would be my fate they had no time to see me anyway, though his mother Tereza has been up to the house a few times. The group of girls I stuck to the fringes of at school essentially cut all contact as well after the lunch I spent with Elecia and Amily was mostly awkward silences.

Instead I turned to the world of inanimate objects to find my solace. My Victor's house is right next-door to Beetee, whose workshop extends all the way to the fence. When I get back from the Victory Tour we're going to knock down the fence and extend my own workshop out to meet. I can't wait.

The Village comes in sight as the rows of gray stones thins and I pass by my first regular stop, where the yellow flower has already been blown several feet from where I left it and the petals have darkened from the chill air. The tributes' cemetery is essentially two neat lines of off-white stone markers surrounded by a low metal fence, with room for plenty more rows to come. Each marker has the name, dates of birth and death and Games number set in dark bronze. The older ones are more gray and grimy, and there are two tiny gaps in the right-hand row. You can't really notice my gap on the left yet, though it will be clear enough after a few more years of our district's children dying.

I replace the flower, though it will undoubtedly blow away again before I'm even on the train. Stuvek said that one of the things he liked most about the Capitol was the bright colors, so I always leave the brightest flower with him. I have a feeling that in a few years I'll run out of flowers before getting past here once I have tributes of my own to remember.

The front door of my house is open when I turn up the path, as is Beetee's one building down. The man who mentored me to 'victory' is standing in-between talking to one of my least favorite people.

They both turn when they hear my crunching footsteps on the gravel and I have a half-second of panic— _they've heard me and are going to chase me down_ —until I notice Carmenius Fallow's hair. The electric blue that previously streaked the bleached white-blond is now the dominant color, criss-crossed with ripples of orange, purple and green. The effect is so ridiculous that I can't help laughing. Our esteemed escort shoots me a glare, but keeps at a safe distance.

He waits for me to reach Beetee's side before glowering down his nose and informing me in his most obnoxious tone, "Thankfully I have acquired a better position for the next Games as escort to District Four. No thanks to your poor interview and public presentation skills."

"I guess my…my…winning…didn't…didn't have…."

"Still can't speak properly? I thought you'd have fixed that by now."

He turns away, sneering and shaking his head, and I start after him until Beetee's hand clamps softly but firmly on my shoulder.

"Dido and your prep team are waiting inside. You should probably hurry, they want to film us in the workshop before we pack it all away onto the train."

I should, but I don't want to. I've gotten a little better these six months, to the point where I can read out something prewritten without dropping too many of my words. If I'm talking about my work I can occasionally get everything out, but Beetee follows well enough that it's often not worth trying.

I can hear my prep team chattering away at my mother as soon as I step through the door. Juliette spots me first and engulfs me in a hug then steps away with a torrent of apologies as she remembers belatedly that I don't like being choked in. Then she spots my fingernails, rough and cracked and stained with grease from last night's playing in the shed. There's a new burn across my left knuckles where a bad hand tremor caused me to drop the soldering iron. Six months of breathing smog and ash has renewed the gray tinge to my skin. All disasters of the highest calamity apparently as I'm dragged upstairs to be made presentable again.

The trio take over my bathroom and bedroom, scrubbing and snipping, though I'm able to skip the painful waxing treatment. Lorcan cuts my hair back to the length I wore it in the arena, muttering about greasy snarls and split ends. The sunburn I took in the arena enhanced the gold tinge for a few months, but it's all faded now so Marius rubs some foul-smelling cream in instead.

I haven't put back on much of the weight I lost in the Arena, so when I finally find myself in front of a mirror, I look just like the half-crazy girl who mounted the stage six months ago to be crowned. Instinctively my hands go to my right chest, just below my breasts where the scar should be. I can feel it there on the inside but the surface is smooth and unblemished. It still unsettles me a little, and serves as a constant reminder that things aren't always as they appear.

"Wiress, it is good to see you again."

Dido sweeps through the door behind me on her four inch heels, chains jingling. She's added a familiar looking ring design to the charm necklace around her neck and a sweeping train of black material that trails behind her from the hall. Over her shoulder is a covered dress-bag, the first of many for the next two weeks.

My mother and sister come in as they are tightening the straps of the silky under-dress. Neither of them are used to seeing me all dolled up; Pella's always been the one who liked dressing in frills and skirts, most of which were inherited by Balia. She stands quietly in the corner watching the four strangers who have invaded her home to steal her big sister away again. At least this time we know that I'll come back.

I've taken Beetee's advice to heart and packed my bags with a tool kit, three of my smaller projects and several sketch pads for ideas. As a Victor, I'm supposed to have a talent to keep me occupied during the months outside the Games. About a month after I got back, someone from the Capitol (I highly doubt it was Carmenius) sent a list of suitable choices including drawing, singing and sculpture. I wrote back and told them I was opting for design and invention, and received a scathing reply about causing myself a negative feminine image.

We all had a good laugh over that one, and Beetee assured me they couldn't stop me choosing what I want, so now I have a whole load of sketches and drafts, two simple robots and a miniature remote-control hovercraft that I built during a particularly sleepless week some months back to be loaded onto the train. Before we leave, the reporters want to film a piece about my talent in the workshop, and if I'm quick I should be able to sneak in a few circuit boards to play with into my load as well.

Practicing my skills on smaller and smaller boards has helped with the tremor in my hands to the point that it's essentially under control when I remember to take the medications Damia prescribes and ships out. It also helps focus my mind, something I'm going to need on this trip.

"..iress?"

"Huh?"

A hand waves in front of my eyes and I realize I've zoned out again. Mother looks resignedly amused—she's been used to my mind wandering all my life—and lets her hand rest gently on my lower arm while they resume the dressing. I'm still fairly jumpy at unexpected contact, but we've found this sort of thing helps me stay in the present, especially when it's someone I'm close to. Balia takes my other hand whenever it's not claimed by one of the prep team and starts singing softly, a song about mountain valleys and lakes that I don't know. I close my eyes and let her voice soothe me as it always does.

Of all my family, Balia and Malcy are the only ones I haven't yet lashed out at. My protective instinct kicks in over self preservation I guess. I shake off the memories of clawing father's arm or bloodying Ezra's mouth and focus on the lilting words about green slopes dotted with blue flowers until the song ends. When I open my eyes again I'm mostly dressed and Mother and Balia are standing off to the side while Dido adds the final touches.

The thick gray material is soft to touch and has glints of silver when I turn it in the light. There's also silvery lace at the collar and when I look closely I can see they actually form a series of interlocking gear wheels stitched around my neck. The boots are flat-soled and cover my legs up to my knees. They feel uncomfortable at first, but after a few minutes I'm used to the strange compression of my calf and rather enjoying the warmth.

District Three, unlike the rest of Panem, has two seasons: hot and cold. We're just past those middling weeks of the season the rest of the nation calls fall, where the line between hot days and cold days varies from year to year. This year it was early, and we've had frosted dirt in the early mornings for the past fortnight. The victors' houses, unlike the apartment I grew up in, have proper heating and insulation like the factories, a wonderful luxury we discovered at the seasonal change.

"All done."

Balia leans over to squeeze my arm gently and I smile to let her know I'm here and look again at the mirror. The dark circles are covered, the golden skin is back, the chapped, bitten lips are smooth and pinkish-red. All set to go remind the districts of the children they lost so that I could be here.

As we head back downstairs, the front door sweeps aside to admit the camera crew into the house, followed by two reporters, who greet me enthusiastically and practically drag me into my workshop, where Beetee is waiting. He helped me set up when we first moved in here, and knows it as well as I do. We have the robots out for filming, and when I let the male reporter Imicus have a go at flying the toy hovercraft he gets all bouncy and cheerful, a child with a toy. Despite my trepidation, the people here are mostly friendly and interested, and as soon as I start talking about my work the tension flows out with my words. Until they start packing up, to be replaced by Capitol attendants, ready to load up a train carriage full of my toys and drawings. The time has come, and I don't want to leave my safe sanctuary. Or I wish I could bring my family along.

Mother steadies me to the doorway and Beetee stands behind me when we're jumped by the remaining swarm of reporters not ten steps from the house, ready to step in whenever my words fall away. I try to smile and answer the three-way interview until a wave of dizziness swamps me.

"Are you looking forward to the tour?"

No, I don't want to see the families of the dead.

"Yes, I can't wait to…to…see…"

"To see the other districts. They are fascinating."

"How have you been spending your time since your victory?"

Trying not to get caught in nightmares.

"I've been working on…on…my…"

"Wiress is a most talented and innovative student of design and invention. You'll have a chance to see some of her work over the next two weeks."

"What does your family think of your chosen talent?"

My family would have been surprised if I chose to spend my life doing anything else.

"They…I've always been…making…"

"Wiress has been involved with this sort of work since her early schooling, and her family are most proud of her genius."

The faces and their microphones and cameras begin to blur together, swirls of color against the drab gray and brown. Swirling, twisting, warping into monsters with fangs and dripping venom, glistening white and…and…

Beetee's arm catches me loosely around the shoulders as I start to drop and he single-handedly supports me as we push through the press of swirling color and sound to the car.

"Thank-you all, we really must be on our way. We'll see you in District Twelve in a couple of days."

He shoves me in and shuts the door to the flashes of light, and suddenly it's all muffled and dulled. The monsters are fading, fading away, and by the time the door opens again to admit my mentor and good friend I even have my breathing back under control.

"Ok?"

"Now."

He smiles and settles his slight frame into the smooth black leather before signalling to the driver.

"Where's…?"

"Carmenius and Dido are in the next car and your mother and sister behind them. Ezra should be meeting us at the station. One more mob to go and we'll be free for the next forty-eight hours."

If you count being stuck in a confined space with Carmenius _Shallow_ free.

"I know," he says, his wry grimace presumably matching my own. "He's still terrified of you though, and you can always escape to your room to 'practice your speeches'."

"I think I'll be…be…doing a…"

"A lot of practicing? You will actually need to; we both well know that you need to have it completely down-pat to keep the words flowing."

He looks at me sternly, wagging his finger and I try not to laugh. Then I see the all-too-familiar streets of my old neighbourhood and stop to watch the press of people, the sea of black hair and ashen skin, grey tinged and sickly and shivering in the cool air. The night shift workers out to do their shopping, spending or trading what little they have for bite-sized bread squares, easy to toast; tins of fruit or vegetable puree, necessary to prevent the rotting sicknesses; components to repair heaters or old blankets if they can't do that. At least my victory brought some joy with food.

The first parcel day Balia and Mother dragged me out to the nearest markets, not the one closest to our old house, but they all look the same anyway. Each market had a licenced distributor and when we arrived there were families queued up half way around the block, each getting ticked off to receive their packages.

All the alleyways and concrete squares were packed with happy faces as they feasted on sweet pastries and fresh fruit for the first time in fifteen years. Two large trucks were parked to one side of the market area and burly peacekeepers were actually being cheered as they carried up sacks of grains and tins of this and that, nothing that most people would normally be able to afford, right to the doors of each apartment.

As we walked through people recognized us, recognized me and came to thank me, to shake my hand. At first I flinched away, not wanting these strangers to crowd me, to touch me. Then I saw the little boy, no more than Malcy's age, munching happily on a crisp slice of apple, held up by arms so thin they looked like cabling wires. Not many in Three are truly starving, but there are always families here and there, people with joint aches or previous injuries that prevent them working in the factories. Children who spend hours cleaning scraps from production line floors or using their delicate fingers to separate tiny components just to earn enough to eat something that week. But not this year. This year they get to eat for free because I slew a monster in the Arena and became a monster myself. The children of District One don't need it like we do, though. It gives me some solace.

The flash of more cameras drags me back to the present. Usually the train station is full of workers packing the carriages with the outputs of our factories. They took us through in 6th grade to show us another of the unpleasant jobs available to us at adulthood. All of us agreed that sitting or even standing at a factory bench in a climate controlled building was better than carefully manhandling boxes of electronics and appliances in either sweltering heat or freezing cold depending on the time of year. The workers themselves all seemed to be crude and unkempt, larger on average than most and reeking of sweat.

Today there are a modest number of them about, cheerfully going about their business loading two nearby carriage trains, all wearing clean overalls and neatly trimmed hair. Three cameras are aimed towards them, showing the people of the Capitol how happy the districts are hard at work to sate their every need. I try not to roll my eyes while a camera might be filming.

"Ready?"

Beetee looks fairly pale himself as he schools his expression into something vaguely happy and slides open the door at my nod. I take a deep breath and follow.

Flash.

Murmuring noises.

Flash.

"Wiress, Wiress…"

"…District Three…"

Flash.

"…ewest Victor makes her…"

Flash. Flash.

Something grabs my arm and I clamp down on a shriek as I pull free. A white-clad peacekeeper steps between me and the over-eager reporter and blocks them off until we reach the side of the train. My family have beaten us here without the mob to push through and I let myself fall into Ezra's arms, remembering at the last second that he's still fairly weak from the illness. He's also no taller than me, and the weeks of sickness, sadness and worry have stripped him of what little weight he had.

"I'll be…back…"

"Soon," he finishes, and tousles my curls before settling me straight. I gave him back the ring I used for a district token and he holds it up now with his clenched fist and taps me lightly in the chest.

"Be strong ok? We'll be here when you get back."

I nod and he steps back so that Balia can launch herself for the cameras. She's grown a little in the last six months, maybe 5'2" with her bouncy curls piled up in a high ponytail. All five of us got some form of Mother's curls, unusual in our district where the sleek, straight black hair is so common. She burrows her head into my shoulder and squeezes my ribs so hard that for a second I start to slip into panic.

"I'll be….ok," I force out and she smiles and jokingly tells me to bring her presents from everywhere and tweaks my hair, the very image of a precious little sister. Finally my Mother wraps me up, though she's no taller than Balia and whispers "Be brave."

"I…I will."

Then we're on-board the train, zipping away to far off-places that my family's arms and my sister's songs can't reach.


	2. Chapter 2

I barricade myself in my room until a Capitol server taps on the door and tells me dinner is ready. The Games trains are mostly so smooth that it's still possible to do fine work, and I put down my tools with a sigh. The others are already seated by the time I reach the dining cart, and I smile gratefully at Beetee and Dido as I take the empty chair between them. Carmenius ignores me, staring out the windows with a sneer as he dunks a bread roll into the steaming orange soup.

I eat in silence, letting the others' conversations wash over my head while we feast on pumpkin soup, a spicy green salad and roasted duck with potatoes in a creamy cheese sauce. I'm savoring the last strawberries from the cream and jelly dessert when Beetee turns to me and says, "We'll be stopping for fuel soon. If you like I can speak to the engineers about having a look at the train's internals."

My smiling acceptance is cut off by Carmenius's scowl and abrupt reply. "She's not allowed off the train. Neither are you, even when stopped. That's the rules."

Beetee waits until Carmenius looks back to his plate before rolling his eyes.

"Yes, of course. That won't be a problem since the parts of interest are _internal_ , and therefore viewable from _inside_ the train."

This surprises me a little; I would've thought the engines at least would be externally accessed. Then I catch his wink and hide a smile behind a gulp of apple juice.

"Would you like to come too?" Beetee asks with a smirk, and I feel the juice catch in the back of my throat as I hold down a laugh. "You might actually learn something worthwhile."

"Like hell."

He stalks off towards his own compartment, drink in hand, and I feel the tension in the room drop a few Barr. I choke down the mouthful of drink in time to see Beetee quirk an eyebrow at Dido, whose face shows her usual bland mask, though her eyes glint with suppressed mirth.

"I too shall decline a lecture in locomotive engineering. I doubt you will be bothered now, though I would advise not being too obvious about it. You are, after all, supposed to remain on the train."

With that she leaves us be, and good as his word, as soon as the gentle thrumming changes pitch Beetee leads the way to the front where the two drivers spend the half-hour refuel showing us the pristine engines and, when I ask, the stabilizers. Both drivers are from District Six, as are the three mechanics, and they're somewhat less scrupulous about rules and regulations than those from the Capitol.

When we start moving again, Barin, the off duty driver and two of the mechanics accept the invitation back to the dining cart, and we spend the next few hours discussing engine designs and weight to power rations until finally Beetee sends me to bed with a reminder that I need to practice my lines.

I pull a face, but go as ordered and read through the notes that I memorized a week ago, but still need in front of me to stay fluent. It seems as long as my brain is routing through the visual pathway it skips over whatever connections got destroyed by the dreadful white flowers that nearly killed me in the Arena. I still have regular nightmares about the terrifying paralysis that they caused, the hours of lying sweating and burning in the sun until the ants came. The fiery agony of their bites seeping through my immobilized limbs until Beetee found a way to send me the antidote.

He explained to me why it had taken so long to send that precious bottle not long after we got back, and after hearing his reasons I almost felt bad about mentally cursing him in the Arena. Once I learned that the flowers were only supposed to knock down a tribute for an hour or so, and that my direct inhalation of the pollen was unexpected and unplanned for, his waiting for me to recover on my own made perfect sense. Even after he realized that I wasn't getting better and that I was directly in the path of the ant swarm that killed another tribute only a few days before, it still took him time to calculate a rough necessary dosage and convince the Gamemakers to pour some on the parachute itself immediately before sending it into the Arena.

Even that had required Plutarch Heavensbee's political clout, the young man representing his father, who had been my main sponsor. I had been shocked when I learned the actual sum of money they had provided to keep me alive, but both Heavensbee's had informed me at the victory banquet that they considered it a worthwhile investment to keep my intelligence alive. Where they could use it to further their business where necessary, just as they use Beetee's brilliance. He had initially become indebted to them trying to save his second tribute, who, in another year might have done alright. The Careers often target the tributes from the recent victorious non-Career districts, regardless of their actual potential, and even with a year's gap poor Teac was near the top of their list.

Beetee's victory set another mark of hatred in the Career districts' minds as he was the start of their longest dry streak, six non-Career victors in a row. Even before they started banding together Districts One, Two and Four never went so long between winners as their relative wealth and professions generally provided stronger tributes anyway.

The train jolts me from my meandering thoughts and I run once more through the words I will regurgitate in each district for the next few weeks before slipping off the dress in favor of silk purple pajamas and crawling into bed, trying not to think of crawling insects while I slowly drift off.

~xXx~

I don't dream of ants swarming my body. Instead I dream of Stuvek, my ill-fated district partner _._

_I'm lost in the maze, only instead of thorny green hedges the walls are made of gigantic gravestones, each one bearing the names and faces of the dead. I can't find my way, but he appears and promises to lead me out. No, to lead me home and I take his hand and follow, trying to ignore the flashes of color as we pass. Jasper, spewing blood from his mouth, and from the gaping wound I made in his neck. Little Sparrow, mouthing his sing-song rhymes as he drags the spear out of his chest and waves it above his head. Francis, hobbling about on the leg I broke with my traps; Junis, the knife-hilt standing out the back of her head while her torso morphs into a giant spider._

_We're running now, down the white stone corridors, past the twists and turns full of monsters. On my left I see three girls torturing Janey Wallace to death. Further on the right Stata Wash's bloodless visage stares at me, holding back a sob. Little Wiran coughs and screams for me to help him, but we're swept away by a river of blood, drowning, choking to a dead end. The stone marker has my name on it, my face, the spear buried in my chest while Jasper leans over me, pinning me down. I'm trapped, I can't move, can't breathe, CAN'T-_

I hit the floor hard, the sheets that restrained my movement slithering down to cover me while I regain my breath. When I finally force myself upright a wave of pain washes across my face and I wipe my hand across my mouth and nose. They come away damp and sticky, just like Felton's blood that first night in the Arena. I bite down on my lip to stop myself shrieking and cry out anyway when the blood trickles into my mouth and down my throat.

Luckily I must pass out because the next thing I know Beetee is peering into my face. My aching, throbbing face. I groan and feel a slight pressure on my arms.

"Wiress, can you hear me? Wiress?"

It's fuzzy and distant and suddenly the world swims into focus again.

"Beetee? I ….blood….river….maze…"

His face relaxes and the pressure on my arms tightens briefly and releases.

"Bad dreams?"

I nod and wince as the throbbing doubles. A hand appears beside me holding two white pills and a glass of water. I follow the outstretched hand up a white sleeve to a bland, expressionless face.

"Painkillers," Beetee confirms. I reach out and take them. The man helps hold the glass up to my lips so I can drink without spilling it. My hands are shaking again, from the shock and the dose of my own medication that I forgot to take last night after dinner.

Belatedly I remember that my meds are supposed to help with sleeping too. I glance over to the table where the box rests. Beetee shoots me a reproving look when he follows my eye-line and hauls himself up from the crouch beside my bed to fetch them.

"They don't do you any good in the packaging you know."

I do know. I just "forget sometimes."

I grimace at the bitter taste as I swallow my morning dose and he pulls a face back.

"When we get home I'll make you an alarm to remind you. String it around your neck like that ring, where you won't lose it."

I pretend to glare at him. "I could…could…make…one….if….if I..."

He looks pointedly at the toolkit and components strewn across the bench top, then steps outside when the all-too-familiar nasal whine announces Carmenius' presence.

I jump when the door shuts without warning and belatedly remember the Capitol attendant when he steps forwards again, this time with a cloth and bowl. He waves the cloth at me and tilts his head and I stare at him for a few seconds before I realize he's an Avox. He mimes a rubbing motion and I smile and wave him forward to clean the blood off my face, forcing myself not to flinch when his fingers brush against my cheek.

My stomach rumbles as he finishes up, but I don't really want to deal with Carmenius this morning. The Avox looks at me and mimes eating. I start to shake my head but he taps my table then his own chest and hurries out the door. Through the brief opening I can hear Beetee's nervous commentary being overridden by Carmenius' pronounced whingeing.

"…an embarrassment if she doesn't…

"…can't help it and you…"

"…I won't be held responsible…"

"…actions aren't improving the situation…"

The door snicks shut and I release the breath I was unconsciously holding. Of course Carmenius blames me for…everything. As though he did me the biggest favor in the world by being our Escort and I barely paid it back by winning the Games and promoting him to pre-eminence. If only the new escort had taken over now rather than waiting for the next Games. There's no guarantee the new man or woman will be any better but I'm fairly sure they can't be worse.

In an attempt to distract myself I move over to the bench and start sorting through my box of components, picking out the bits I would need to make a small timer. I've realized that I don't have anything I could use for a speaker when the door slides back open to reveal the Avox with a tray of cereal, pancakes and syrup, a bowl of fruit and a large pitcher of apple juice all for me.

"Thank…you."

He smiles in return and steps back out, leaving me to my breakfast and my work. I sketch out several ideas in my notebook while I eat, grimacing every time I manage to drip juice or syrup on the crisp white pages. I've barely finished when a brief rap on my door is followed by Lorcan, who tells me that we're only two hours out from District Twelve and that I'd better start getting ready. Or prepare myself to be got ready, as Juliette bounds in after him, gives a muffled shriek of horror when she sees blotches of blood and syrup on my face and pen ink on my hands where I started doodling.

I let myself drift away as they begin the now-familiar routines of scrubbing me down in the modified shower, brushing out my hair, and bundling me into whatever outfit has been deemed worthy for the poorest of the Districts, poorer even than my own.

Marius arrives to apply 'minimal' makeup, by which he only takes half an hour to properly accent my pointed, dull face. I can feel the train starting to slow as he tidies up his powders and brushes, chattering away all the while about this fashion icon and that magazine article and did I hear about the dramatic season ending of _Swept Away_?

It's not until I'm released that I realize Dido hasn't made her usual appearance, nor is she waiting with Beetee and Carmenius near the doors, ready to make our dramatic exit.

Beetee notices my confused glance around and reaches out to steady my arm, murmuring "Interview. The Capitol fashionistas have been at her for the last four hours by video conference. She'll be here soon."

"And if not, she can always catch up later," Carmenius adds with a sniff. "It's not like _she's_ the important one here."

I don't take the bait.

The train rolls to a stop at a dreary platform filled with dark-haired people, and for a moment when we step out to faint cheers and applause I think I'm back home already. Then the smell hits me, the smell of fresh living things that I knew from the arena, mingled with something tantalizingly similar to the smog back home, but somehow different. Fresher, though still unpleasant.

The small crowd moves in slightly to get a better look at the reigning Victor, and my familiarity is shattered. Most of them are my height or taller, the men noticeably taller than the women. In our district there's little difference in height and build between the genders, both topping out around 5'4"-5'6". Here more than half the men are pushing towards six feet tall, and while the dark hair remains, their skin tone is more a motor oil brown than our sickly gray-gold. Towards the center of the group, the people become substantially taller and more rounded, lighter haired and lighter skinned. Wherever we go there is always the merchant class it seems, wealthy in comparison to the mere workers.

The mayor, a gray-haired woman with a too-wide smile, and her eldest son greet us formally, welcoming us to their humble district. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to reply, but it doesn't matter as we're packed off into cars to take us first on a tour of the coal mines and town, then to the Justice Building, where I'll have to force out the speech I've spent the last few days thoroughly memorizing.

The drive to the town center is a short one, this district being much more compact and centralized. On both sides, in the gaps between houses I can see a great metal fence running, twice the height of a person with bright yellow signs to warn of the voltage. Beyond that is green. Green and brown and orange and red, falling leaves in heaps of color. Color that spreads under the fence, in-between the houses and into a wide open field. So much green, so much life. How different it must be for these people to spend their days surrounded by living things.

The tour of the mines takes all of an hour. The man who steers us around has a craggy face and hands stained black by coal dust. The words have a practiced tone to them; maybe he teaches the school kids like the shift overseers who take groups around the factories.

The only color in the mines comes in the form of a row of bird-cages, each bearing a bright yellow bird that chirps away sweetly.

"Canaries," our guide says with a twisted smile. "Good for telling when there's gas leaks in the shafts."

"Do they start…"

"Start singing if they smell gas?" Beetee finishes for me, and sounding curious in his own right. This earns another grizzled smirk as the man replies.

"Nah, it's when they stop singing that we know. Gas kills 'em, see. When the chirping stops it's time to get out. These birds save lives every year."

Saving lives at the cost of their own. That sounds familiar. Suddenly the walls seem very close and the darkness begins looming in. Apparently this isn't an uncommon reaction to being underground and our guide quickly takes us back up to the surface.

The ceremony isn't scheduled to start until one in the afternoon when the day's mine shifts are finished early. Apparently school is out for the day so that the whole district can be here. As a result I have a little time to wander in the shops with Beetee and a pair of Peacekeepers a few paces back to keep the small crowds of shop-keepers and their children from bothering us.

It seems strange not to find anywhere selling electronic bits and pieces, and my hope at finding the components for the alarm I was going to make fades as we wander through a clothes shop, shoe-makers and a small hardware store that has nothing more advanced than pliers and saws.

The enticing smells of the bakery lure us both, and Beetee purchases a stack of cookies filled with dried fruit and nuts that are fresh baked and taste so much better than the packaged rolls of dough we occasionally had at home.

Two of the cookies go to the baker's sons when he isn't looking, both boys old enough to be working on their day off school, but young enough to show delight at the unexpected treat. The next shop down sells writing and drawing materials, cheap, simple jewelry and glassware all bundled together. When I ask, the old man out the back lets me watch him blowing a bottle while a boy around my age hefts a box full of them and slips out the back door.

I take the opportunity to purchase a small blank sketch-pad and pens, and draw the blowing tube he used before Beetee nudges me on. We ignore the butchers and fruit and vegetable seller, and I'm debating whether to just sit somewhere and keep sketching until it's time to prepare when a flap of wings catches my attention. Two birds, black and white land on the roof of the next store down, where the boy we just saw leave is handing over the assorted jars to a white-haired man wearing an apron.

On the porch a trio of girls are sitting together with a canary just like the ones in the mines. Rescued, perhaps, from its cruel fate by these merchant kids who can afford it. The bird certainly seems happy enough, whistling out trills of notes which are soon picked up by the larger birds on the roof-top. The two men look up as we approach and the older man smiles when he recognizes us.

"Alder Keyton, if you're wanting any herbs or the sort. 'Course I can't blame you if you're just here to hear our mockingjays sing."

He points up to the birds who are still trilling the canary's whistle over and over.

"Aye, they'll sing anything back at you if they think it's pretty enough," he adds with a smile at the girls.

"Just ask Ruthie," the boy adds, nodding to the smallest of the girls, who looks around Balia's age. "She's got a friend down in the Seam who gets flocks singing right back at him. Ain't that right Ruthie?"

He winks and the girl blushes. Alder scowls at him. "That's enough of that Jordie Connell. Back to your father with you, boy. I've enough glass bottles to see me through to next week."

He turns back to us, still looking unhappy, but before we can continue the conversation a loud, nasal and all-too-familiar voice rings from the central town square a short distance back.

" _There_ you are. Honestly, I don't see why you had to go off wandering around this sty. Your stylist wants you back now to clean up whatever mess you've made of yourself this time. Well come on, we don't have all day."

Carmenius looks less than pleased to be dirtying his magenta leather boots with mud. I turn back to say goodbye to the friendly shop-keeper, but Carmenius' holler interrupts again.

" _Now_ Wiress. I mean it, no skulking around fiddling with this or that or we'll never get anything done."

I smile at Alder, share a sympathetic glance of disgust with Beetee and make my way across the square, letting my shoes sink a little into the soft earth. This earns me another sniff of disapproval as I draw near. I force myself to remember that this trip is the last time I'll ever have to deal with Carmenius, and don't retort.

Dido does want to tidy me up, and also gives me a disapproving stare when she spots the muddy splotches on my boots and the hem of my dress. This actually does make me feel a little guilty and I take the silent remonstration with a nod, reminding myself to watch out for puddles in future.

I'm kept indoors until it's time for the presentation, reading and re-reading the cards that contain my speech, even though I know it by heart. As long as I can trick my brain into thinking I'm reading, it won't mess up my words. Finally the call comes, and I step out onto the platform facing a sea of dark heads and the reaping comes rushing back. I panic for a moment when I can't see Balia's tear-stained face in the front row, can't see the gray concrete buildings chunking up the skyline as far as the eye can see.

When I see the man standing closest to the stage is an adult not some child waiting to be called to their death, and his wife beside him, and two younger children near Malcy's age I relax. _It's not the reaping, it's the Victory Tour. This is the audience, I'm speak….reading to the audience._

It takes me two tries to get the first word out, but once I start talking I spot a tall tree in the distance, keep my eyes fixed on it and let the words flow. The sound of applause wakes me from my semi-reverie, and I assume I've managed a suitable job based on Beetee's smile and nod.

Again I glance down to the front of the crowd, where that family of four catches my eye. A few steps closer to the stage than the rest of the audience, huddled together, all sharing the same mousey-brown hair as they stare up at me with resigned expressions. To the right a similar group huddles, though their looks are less sad and more angry. Two women and four children, dark haired and brown skinned. The oldest boy can't be more than twelve, but I see the resemblance to Tobias already. Of course I should have remembered the families of the tributes. We see them every year in our own district, forced to the front so they can be seen cheering for the person who quite possibly killed their loved ones. Or maybe it's a reminder to the Victors. Probably both.

If I wasn't already dreading District One I am now.

Thankfully my sudden shakiness and garbled words aren't an issue for the rest of the afternoon. I smile for the cameras as the Mayor presents me with a plaque, shake her hand and scurry inside back to the cool safety of an empty room.

There's no dinner function in Twelve; we're heading straight back to the train and on to District Eleven, where we will stay the night. I'm not looking forward to seeing the families there either, but at least I didn't kill their children.

The brief journey back to the station is a blur of colors and sounds and the fading stink of coal, where green and brown flashes of color and life continue all the way to District Eleven.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing I notice at our approach to District Eleven is the giant fence, rearing higher even than the one in the last district. And unlike the last one, this one doesn't pretend to be protecting the people from the outside, not with rows of spikes along the top. They don't bother fencing us in at home; the barren and slightly radioactive wastelands spreading for a week's walk in every direction do that just fine.

Again like home and District Twelve, the people of Eleven have a distinctive look to them. Skin tones ranging from the pale brown of today's dress, _fawn,_ according to Juliette, through middling shades all the way to nearly black. As always the flash of fairer hair and skin that marks the merchant class congregate together, well away from the working rabble.

We're permitted a brief tour of a nearby fruit orchard, where the last crops of blueberries and strawberries are nearly done for the year, and then on to some bee-keepers who draw out solid blocks of wire mesh from humming boxes to collect the dripping honey.

After my last run-in with insects I stay well away, though Beetee steps in for a closer look at the smoke-pots they use to keep the bees tamed.

As Carmenius threatened, he refuses to let me wander through the town while we wait for the ceremony, instead confining me with the help of two Peacekeepers to a room to practice my lines as he felt yesterday's performance was _insincere_.

Beetee's still out somewhere, probably trying do re-design a more efficient smoke system, and I don't really feel like arguing so I do as I'm told until Dido appears to tidy me up again.

This time I pick the corner of a building to stare at while I deliver the words, trying not to let my eyes flit to the front of the crowd where the families will be. I almost make it through before I falter, first spotting Seeder and presumably her sister, a teenage boy and a little girl. All mourning poor Junis, though they don't have hatred in their eyes. I know Seeder killed more tributes in her Games than I did, so she definitely understands. Even so, I feel like I should be apologising.

I force myself to look left, to where whatever remaining family little Sparrow Harper has will undoubtedly be less restrained in their hatred of the girl who could easily have been their little boy standing here instead. A lone woman, gray haired and sharp faced, standing as stiff as the collar of her dress stares back, looking disinterested. There's a pin on her chest, a familiar symbol that crests several buildings back home, the same as in every district.

That the beautiful, charming, gilt-tongued Sparrow was a Community Home child surprises me greatly. Then again, he learned that cold-hearted resilience somewhere, and with his fair coloring he was probably the target of the other children more often than not.

The afternoon is spent in more preparation for tonight's dinner. Once I'm suitably bedecked in a swathe of purple and silver drapes Beetee takes me to a small room to introduce me to the District Eleven victors, though I'm not supposed to be formally meeting them until tonight.

I recognize Seeder and Chaff from my Games, and they both greet me with the easy air of old friends. The older man, whose white hair stands in stark contrast to his near-black skin is introduced as Alko Johnson. I'd put his age around sixty, and he moves with a stiff limp when he steps forward to shake my hand. Scars criss-cross his arms and a particularly savage line traces across his balding skull to the mangled left ear. I guess they cared less about prettying up the victors in the old days of the Games.

The fourth man is vaguely familiar, and introduces himself as Tolby Bartlett. Like Alko and Chaff his skin is a rich, deep brown. I'd put him around Beetee's age and the two seem friendly, immediately striking up a conversation about Beetee's afternoon beekeeping. Alko hobbles over to the side-board and struggles to pour himself a glass of something. This leaves me with the mentors of this district's tributes from my Games. Again, I feel like I should be apologizing for being here, but can't seem to find any suitable words.

Finally Seeder smiles and reaches her hand out slowly to my shoulder. "It's all right. We don't blame you."

I jump when a weight slaps down on the other shoulder. Chaff gives me an apologetic smile and adds, "Believe me girl, we understand. You will too soon enough. "

With that he wanders over to the side-board, reaching out with his one hand to help the older man with his drink. Still at a loss for words I glance around, catching Beetee's eye and he waves us over to their conversation.

"Wiress, we were just discussing the smokers they use for beekeeping, I was telling Tolby here that an automated system wouldn't be too hard to set up, or at least something with a bit more range and easier to control."

Before I can reply the door bangs open and our impromptu meeting is brought to an end by a series of officials who apparently require two hours to 'organize' our short walk to the dining room. Even worse, I'm side-tracked to a small office, where three reporters are waiting to speak to me about my impressions of the Victory Tour so far, and who are so excited that Carmenius generously provided them this opportunity to speak to me one on one.

I stumble through a few ragged sentences that they seem more than happy to finish for me, all the while thinking up the most painful way imaginable for our Escort to die. I've mentally reached the part where I'm dangling him by the ankles over a pit of acid when a fuming Beetee finds us and rescues me, citing dinner preparations and dragging me out of the room before they can protest.

"Sorry about that. I've had a word to Carmenius. He won't try it again, at least without speaking to you and me first."

"Does that mean I can't…can't…"

"You should probably try not to kill him," A voice says from behind as I trail off. I whirl to see Lorcan, one of my prep team members, all done up in an eye-popping lime green suit.

"You would disappoint so many people who wanted to do it themselves," he adds with a smirk, and I hear Beetee chuckle.

"Yes, well thankfully we're not going to have to deal with him again from next year. Assuming you are coming back?"

Lorcan nods to this and raises an imaginary glass. "Here's to the next Games."

Underneath the Capitol accent I'm pretty sure I can hear a note of sarcasm. The door behind us opens to release the reporters we just escaped. Lorcan glances from them to us, grimaces, and cuts in front of them with a congenial wave.

"Anyway," he says, stepping towards me and offering a hand, "Dido wanted me to fix your hair up so that it's not going to fall into your supper. I said I didn't think that band was enough to hold it up, and look, it's falling out already."

I let him lead me to another dressing room to complete the 'tidy-up' until they are gone.

"Dido's furious with him too, you know," he says as he picks invisible specks off my shoulders. "And she's a bad woman to cross. Not that Carmenius ever had any sense. My brother went to school with him—that's how I got the job actually—though Vander thinks he's an idiot too. A rich idiot, and a popular one now that he has a victor. It won't last once people remember how much of a…well, that's better."

He lightly brushes some more imaginary flecks away, then goes to the door, peering out cautiously.

"All clear," he says with a grin. "If you like I can walk you up to your room in case they jump you again."

I accept the offer and spend the remaining time chatting to Lorcan about the airbrush he uses for fancy designs. He lets me have a play on some scrap paper, and I decide I can probably build one of my own when I get back. A better one, which doesn't clog as easily and switches colors without having to change cartridges.

The dinner is fun, sitting between Beetee and their mayor, far enough away from Carmenius that I don't have to even pretend to be civil. Almost too soon we're back on the train, heading back west to District Ten.

~xXx~

Unlike the other places I've been Ten seems to have a more balanced mix of people spread over a much wider area. There's no tall fences as most people live on huge tracts of land to manage their animals. The main settlement is home to the abbatoirs, tanners, packing factories and a small collection of shops. A friendly man with Ten's typical drawling accent takes us out to one of the nearer farms, where people on horseback use cracking whips and long poles to keep a herd of cattle in line.

Several paddocks over a boy around my age uses high-pitched whistles to control a pair of thin dogs to round up his sheep and force them into a small enclosure. Our guide also offers to show us around the butchery and the leather-makers. I get one waft of the smell and decline.

It gives us time to have a quick peek in the shops, and to my delight the general store has an old, broken radio full of useful components that he cheerfully lets me take off his hands for a decent price. Beetee pretends to roll his eyes and summons an attendant to carry it back to the train, ignoring my protests that I want to play with it now.

Today's outfit is a pants and loose tunic-like shirt in a dusky pink color I despise. Juliette piles my hair up into an elaborate knot for the ceremony, where I again fail to avoid the glares of the tribute families at the front of the crowd. Anton had a mother and older sister, while pretty Starria got her looks from her father's bronzed skin and her mother's dark curls.

Three of the previous Victors from Ten are at the dinner, but they're seated on the other end of the table, past the mayor and his people, and I don't get a chance to speak to them before Carmenius hustles us back to the train. Beetee names them for me as Annibel Blake, Pelline Smith and Abram Talbot. The youngest is Pelline, who won over twenty years ago, though I think they've had one more since.

The main town of Nine is as drab and dreary as home, rows and rows of gray concrete factories and store-houses manned by distinctly featured people. Their District processes a lot of the food from Eleven, Ten and Four, as well as growing their own grain to supplement that of Eleven. Fields and fields of golden-brown grasses spread in all directions, and there's a decent sized river that runs through the middle of the District and alongside the town, dotted along the line with flour mills.

We're only here for the day, and when I step out onto the stage to give my memorized speech I notice a distinct splitting of the ethnic groups. The field workers are mostly fair skinned, with red or brown hair. They're all grouped on the left-hand side of the square. In the middle stands the shop-keepers and millers, the overseers of factories and fields. Fair skinned, mostly lighter haired, as usual. To the right stand the factory workers themselves, all brown skinned, dark haired and hook-nosed. A three-way split instead of two.

Tarragon's family are clearly part of the field-workers group. Morris had the dark features of the factory people. Both families glare at one-another as much as they do at me. I briefly get to meet the four Victors from Nine before we leave. The two older women Breeana and Lindsey are quiet but friendly. It takes me a few minutes to recognize Breeana as the only other thirteen-year-old victor, who won her Games by falling half-way down a crevasse and outlasting the remaining tributes, though she was dehydrated and fever-delirious from infected wounds when they dragged her up.

Robin Miller is their only male victor, one of a run of non-Careers around the same time as Beetee. The last girl, Whisper Stalk, is my age, sly and silent. She strangled six tributes including both Career girls to claim her throne two years ago, smiling all the while.

I barricade myself in my room on the train, taking apart the radio and re-wiring the little speaker to make an alarm. I don't have a timer to attach to it, but it's a start.

~xXx~

District Eight is quite reminiscent of home; rows and rows of factories, sitting lower in a dip so that the smog layer doesn't quite cover the shops, town square and Victors Village. The ethnic split appears to be as unpronounced here as in District Ten. Everyone looks equally miserable and underfed, and they all share the similar grayed skin tone to our district, a mark of the smog we breathe day in and out.

Eight has only ever had two Victors, both of whom get horribly drunk at the dinner. Boyd looks to be in his thirties, with dark hair and fat stomach that protrudes from under his styled suit. Wilfram is older, mousey hair and scraggly beard going gray where it's not stained by bits of jelly or custard. Boyd keeps refilling my glass with the sweet, nutty-flavored drink and I take it at first because he's telling me all about Felton's wonderful drawings. I keep drinking to drown out the memories of Felton's sticky blood on my hands and soon I'm giggling at his outrageous stories of monsters made of fabric scraps hidden under the bed.

I don't come close to matching their number of drinks, but by the end of the night I've had enough to feel giddy and my head swirls when I try to stand. Beetee, who was seated four places down on their far side shoots the pair a glower as he helps me keep my feet for the walk to the car. I think I tell him he's amazing and that his glasses are sparkly. I'm not sure what else happens between then and waking up with a pounding headache and the desire to empty my stomach into the conveniently placed bucket by my bed.

The train gives a slight lurch and my stomach heaves again. A pair of hands reaches down for the bucket as I finish retching and I jerk backwards, nearly dropping it on myself. The Avox is more dexterous and carries it away, passing a ruefully smiling Beetee in the doorway.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like….like…." I can't even think of a word to describe it.

The train lurches again and I clap a hand over my mouth. Nothing comes out but the pounding in my head doubles and I'm suddenly desperately thirsty. I fumble for the water bottle that I usually keep by my bedside and find it waving in front of my face, a pair of concerned dark eyes with silver-rimmed glasses right behind it.

The light catches on them, glinting in my eyes and I wince.

"They're still…sparkly," I tell him as I take the water, remembering only to take small swallows.

He frowns, so I lean forward and tap the bridge of his glasses. He laughs.

"You remember saying that? I didn't think you would." He frowns again. "What else do you remember?"

What else do I remember?

"I wasn't as..as…bad as…as…"

"Boyd and Wilf? If you'd drunk that much I'd be worried that you wouldn't wake up before we reached District Seven."

It's a full day and a half train ride to District Seven. I wonder now if it's the morning after or the morning after that. Beetee catches my look towards the clock and says, "Half-past twelve. Lunchtime, if I thought you were likely to want to eat anything. We still have another night yet."

Good. I don't think I feel up to getting out of bed today.

"Well," he says as he rises from the crouch beside my bed, pushing the silver rims back up his short nose. "It had to happen sometime I guess. Better in one of the Districts than in the Capitol. If you're not up by dinner I'll send someone. Drink water. Lots of water. If you need me I'll be in my room."

He reaches the door still smiling and shaking his head, and I have to ask, "Beetee? Did I say….you…you were…a…amazing?"

The smile turns serious as he straightens his glasses again. "You remember that too? What else do you remember?"

"Nothing," I say honestly. Now I'm worried. What else did I say?

I drift back asleep trying to remember, but all I can find is flashing lights, the car lights maybe, and an arm around my shoulders. When I wake I'm even thirstier than before. I roll back towards the table to find a row of water bottles beside my alarm clock and sketch-pad. Nice to know someone cares.

The clock reads half-past five, and after finishing the second bottle my body gives me another reason to get up. Once I'm on my feet I decide to attempt dinner and find something comfortable to wear in the drawers.

Dido and Lorcan are huddled over the table discussing pictures when I enter. They both look up when the door clicks and I know from my stylist's face I'm in trouble.

"Wiress. Will you join us?"

It's not a question. I take the seat beside her. On her left Lorcan turns his head and gives a suspiciously false sounding cough.

I try to take the lecture about overindulgence in good grace; I know I won't be letting myself do this again anytime soon, so it's no problem to promise to limit my intake to one or two glasses in future.

I manage dinner without feeling queasy and turn in for an early night. When I wake the headache is gone, and I practically spring from the bed until I remember. Another day, another speech, another pair of families glaring at me while I speak empty words at whatever feature I can fix my eyes on in the distance.

The boy from Seven had been a real contender until he pushed his luck at the Cornucopia. He was big, strong and determined, but no match for District Two. Five boys ranging in age from around twelve to twenty all glower while applauding their mayor's presentation of a pinecone-shaped plaque. Seven's girl stood as much chance as my own district partner, and her family only look sad not angry.

I do enjoy being back around living things, the smell of trees on the wind, though many of them are dead-looking and coated in snow. Dido has me wrapped up in a puffy-sleeved jacket, fur-lined pants and an awful fluorescent orange fleecy head wrap that I ditch as soon as I get the chance.

Instead of just the dinner, District Seven put on something of a carnival for our visit, with loggers vying alone or in teams in wood-cutting races, wielding long saws or axes with vicious intent. Stalls and stands ring the square, offering carved trinkets of all sizes and shapes. I buy a butterfly-shaped one for Balia, and a little pinecone for Malcy, and take them out of my pocket to sniff the wonderful fresh smell until Carmenius snidely laughs at me.

At the dinner we sit outside ringed by coal braziers and feast on roast boar and fresh fish from the river, collected by special permit according to the man next to me as I devour the offering. He turns out to be the mayor's nephew and rises with an apology to me after the main course to join in the axe-throwing dance that starts up in the middle of the square.

I don't mind as it gives me a chance to meet the two victors. Hans Mayer is white-haired, mostly deaf, and mutters strange words under his breath. Olivia Campbell looks around my mother's age and seems friendly enough, though her reactions betray her when a stray axe flies near us from the dancers. She snatches it from the air and whirls, weapon raised high to defend against her attacker. After a few seconds a sheepish boy comes to collect it and she gives it back with a clip on the ear. When the waiters come past she grabs a glass of champagne and downs it, clenching the fine glass cup until her hands stop shaking. I guess we never really get over it.

District Six is just a short seven hours south of here, and I wake to find the train already stopped. According to my prep team, this means it's time to have another major scrub-down. Juliette tells me all about the whole collection of wooden carvings she bought and how jealous all her friends are going to be as she washes out my hair and rubs in some flower-scented oil.

Marius helps me into the copper and blue dress, then does my makeup for our tour around the transport district. I give my speech to a distant antenna, very deliberately not looking at Aleksander's younger brother and father. Wenda was another Community Home child, and as in Eleven, the woman who stands for her family looks bored by the whole affair. As though she's done it all before. Probably has. I know in Three they make the home children take out maximum tesserae to keep their food costs down.

We're on towards District Five by nightfall as it's all the way on the west coast. I spend the ride tinkering with my toys and snacking on whatever the Avox who makes up my room decides to bring me. Beetee checks in twice, staying the second time to chat about what I'm working on and our next destination.

"I think you'll like Five," he says with a nod that causes his glasses to slip down his nose. "The different power stations are all interesting in their own way, though we're going to the town so we won't get to see any of the coal-fired or solar ones. But they have wind, tidal, and of course nuclear power right by the main town as they require the most people to maintain."

He sounds like a schoolboy all excited about the annual assignment presentations in our senior science classes, though I have to agree they do sound interesting.

We arrive just after breakfast and step out into an absolute downpour at the station. Marius and two Capitol attendants hurry over with a large waterproof canvas that they spread over our heads until we reach the safety of the cars.

We're greeted at the Justice Building by a long-faced man who tells us that he'd planned to give us a tour of the various power stations, but because of the weather…

Beetee cuts him off by pointing out that the nuclear station is all inside, so we could go see that one at least. Carmenius steps in and says no, we're not going anywhere. For once Beetee tells him to shove it and directs the guide to take us back out in the cars. I listen to them chatting like old friends and try to forget the dangerous cold glimmer that danced in Beetee's eyes when he rounded on Carmenius. It's so easy to forget that every one of us is a killer at heart.

The tour of the nearest power station successfully distracts me. Our guide won't allow me to see the full schematics, but does sit down and draw out the basic process of fuel activation to fission for me. We get to see the glowing blue pool, and the great turbines which are turned by the steam from boiling water. All just one big kettle really.

We get a glimpse at one of the tidal stations as well on the drive back, and our guide assures us that the people who work or live near there swim as well as anyone in District Four.

"Better even," he adds with a grin as we roll past the great tubes lining the cliff and bay.

"Our lot do all their swimming by the cliffs, have to be more careful they're not washed into the rocks or the…"

He trails off at my wince at the imagery of death by some turbine blade. We do the usual routine with the speech and dinner. The stage where I give my victor's address is sheltered from the pouring rain. The square is not, and I bet being forced to stand dripping, cold and miserable while I stutter through my words doesn't make the people of Five like me any more than they might otherwise.

I spend the dinner seated between Five's two most recent victors, and quickly give up trying to interact with surly Warrick James, intent only on his wine and food in favour of the much friendlier Diya Patel. She won her games ten years ago by smarts as well, and it quickly becomes obvious just how intelligent she is. Beetee's seated on her other side and we spend the entire dinner discussing the workings of the power stations and some of our own projects of interest.

When we chance a break in the weather to get back to the trains she shakes my hand warmly and promises to see me at the Games in six months time. I try not to let my smile falter; she's just being friendly, but I'd managed to push away the knowledge that I was mentoring some poor girl to her death to the back of my mind.

The storm picks up again as we roll out south and I spend the night awake, listening to the pinging patter of water falling on the roof of the carriage and the gentle snicker-snack of us rolling over the tracks, trying to get the image of some brute running Balia through out of my head.


	4. Chapter 4

District Four brings sunshine to chase away yesterday's storm. Dido provides me with a pair of sleek sun-tinted glasses to wear and has Marius slather me with a cream to prevent sunburn before I'm allowed to step out into the warm air. It may be fall going on winter in some parts of Panem, but here in the far south it ranges from mild to hot year-round.

The seacoast here is much flatter, speckled with beaches and coves instead of Five's high, miserable cliffs, and rows upon rows of white sails rise up along the edge of the lapping waters. Despite my traps and tricks causing crucial injuries that got both their tributes killed the people seem friendly enough, and while we aren't allowed to go play in the water we do get to wander freely through the markets, where I'm overwhelmed by the salty stink of fish and other sea-creatures for sale between net-makers, sail-stitchers and seashell-jewellery. I find a pair of pretty necklaces with some shell that swirls through silver, pink and blue-purple for Laney and mother, and a neat swordfish-shaped belt-buckle for Ezra as gifts.

As we're nearing the end of the stalls a friendly voice calls out and Beetee turns with a smile.

"Mags, Nim! How are you?"

The pair of older ladies join us, ignoring the stern glare of our accompanying Peacekeepers. Both have full baskets on their arms, and invite us back to the Victor's Village for tea and cookies. One of our guards steps forwards and says "I'm not sure that's allowed."

Mags eyes him cooly and replies, "What nonsense. Here, us delicate flowers are too old to be carting all this up the hill. A strong young lad like you should have no trouble though."

She dumps her basket in the young man's hands before he can protest. When the other woman, Nim shies away, she grabs her basket and passes it on to the other of our guards.

"Well," she says pointedly when they both stare at her. "Village is that way. Lead on and don't drop it mind. That's my dinner."

Stunned, the pair turn about and start walking. We give them a ten foot head-start and follow, Mags linking arms with the shy Nim as she and Beetee chat away.

"Silly young boys, who do they think they are telling us what to do? Now dear, don't worry, your breads will be fine. If he drops or squashes them I'll flay his ears for fishing line."

One of the white-clad figures flinches and raises his empty hand to brush his ear. Mags cackles away and Beetee laughs with her.

"You're a force of nature Margret Strathborne. And thank-you for the invitation. Will you be at the dinner tonight?"

She smiles and waves away his thanks. "No dear. They like to keep those things for the younger crowd. Morstan will be there, possibly Ava, and Denissa I should think. Silly girl's learned her lesson about not attending official events."

I see Beetee's brow crease in the slightest of frowns and Mags suddenly starts pointing out small islands aways off-shore, and naming some of the boats as we begin the trek up the steep path to the Victor's Village.

Once we get there she shoos the pair of Peacekeepers inside the first house and directs them to put her and Nim's shopping on the table. I pause at the door, glancing around the row of houses, so similar yet so different to our own.

For one, nearly half their houses have occupants, judging by the clutter of fishing and boating gear by the doors. The one two from the far end catches my eye and I step back out to get a better look. From here it's hard to say, but it almost looks burned out.

"Everything alright dear?"

Mags is back and I hesitate, but curiosity gets the better of me and I point to the ruined house.

"What happened…?"

She frowns and glances back over her shoulder before stepping out closer to me. I take half a step back and she raises her hands, letting me know I'm safe from attack.

"That was Denissa's house," she says softly with another glance inside. "Silly girl, I told her…well. I'm sure you and Beetee have had time for a chat about what might be expected when it comes to meeting with your sponsors?" She waits for my nod before continuing.

"Of course I expect your sponsors were after something rather different. Denissa's a pretty, feisty girl who thinks very highly of herself. Didn't like taking instructions from silly old me, didn't like answering invitations from very important people. Thought she was above it all. Thought she could just not go."

Another glance into the house. Still no sign of the others.

"Well they called her down to give an interview in town during the final few in your Games when Francis…well…it was mandatory viewing and she had all her family up in her house when it started. Smoke billowing, flames licking from the windows is what Nim said. They all rushed over to help of course, but two of the little cousins had a bit of roof fall on them. Terribly dangerous these kitchens, though I'm sure the wiring fault would have been found if she'd been where she was supposed to…"

She cuts off mid-sentence and starts pointing out towards the islands again, naming them more slowly as the Peacekeepers reappear. Before they can say a word she bustles us all inside, where Nim has the kettle on and Beetee is examining an upturned kitchen timer.

I can't help but laugh when the two Peacekeepers are bullied into taking tea and sweet cookies with us. The younger one even cracks a smile or two and when we finish our drinks and politely thanks Mags before reminding us we really should be getting back.

Predictably, Carmenius throws a temper tantrum about our unscheduled morning tea which I mostly escape as the sea breeze has 'completely messed my hair'. By the time Juliette is done the yelling seems to be over and I prepare myself to face the families of two people who I did have a hand in killing, even if I didn't strike the final blow.

Damian has a brother who looks nearly the same as him, down to the mussed fall of sun- bleached hair and the tight scowl. No-one in Francis' family looks anything like her and I think of the overheard conversation between her and her frank, outspoken mentor Mags during training. Francis mentioned something her Uncle was going to make her do if she hadn't volunteered. Something she considered worse than a high chance of death. At the time I wondered what could be so awful. I think I have a pretty good idea now.

The dinner has a similar carnival atmosphere to District Seven, with course after course of seafood in a multitude of forms. I'm not a fan of the raw fish and rice wrapped in sea-weed rolls or the slimy snot-colored oysters that are apparently a delicacy, but I do enjoy the other shellfish, and let the young girl next to me—the mayor's daughter, who tells me all about her plans to volunteer someday, though she barely looks of reaping age—show me how to crack open the spindly crab legs and suck out the best bits.

I'm dragged into a dance at one stage by a pack of rowdy teenagers, whirled from hand to hand around a circle while everyone laughs and claps in time to the music. I don't mind at first, but with each strange hand that brushes me, holds me, I feel the panic start to rise. Just as it's about to boil over the tempo changes and a strong hand darts in to catch mine and drag me aside. Morstan Wake, the only male victor Four has ever had. I know he's a good few years older than Beetee, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. Tall, tanned, hard body, rich black hair and cold eyes as dark as my own.

He spins me aside and releases his grip so that my hand is simply resting on his arm. Now that I can see who is touching me and can escape the panic rush fades.

"Looked like you needed out before you stab…started having a problem."

"Thanks," I murmur, ignoring his slip. He keeps me twirling and when I look around the area the other dancers seem to have paired off in a similar way. I have no idea what I'm doing so I let him lead, following his graceful motions with my own clumsy steps. Thankfully Dido has left my shoes flat enough that I'm not trying to balance on a narrow heel.

"So how are you enjoying your tour?" He asks after a few more stepped circles.

"I….it's…interesting…"

His smile is as cold as his eyes. "Interesting. Yes, I found the other districts interesting too, though I spent the whole time longing for the smell of the sea."

I'm not sure what to say so I stay silent as we rotate slowly around, one more pair amongst all the others. After a minute of silence a hand taps Morstan on the shoulder and he whirls suddenly, hands upraised.

"Might I cut in?"

Beetee doesn't wait for an answer but grabs my hands and pulls me away to continue the circular step pattern, a little less smooth than before.

"I didn't know you…you…."

"Danced?" He finishes with a rueful smile. "I don't, but it looked like you needed a rescue. Come on."

He leads me away back to the tables, dodging twirling couples as we reclaim our seats.

"Morstan was…he was…"

"He's a decent sort," Beetee says with a nod. "Dark humoured though, and a bit odd."

 _Aren't we all?_ I think to myself as I watch the dancers continue. A pair of girls bring out twinned ropes with weighted ends that they set alight, tracing fiery patterns into the night as they twirl them back and forth. A group of children do some dance over a net, every jump and step landing in a new square, their toes never once touching the thicker rope.

I feel myself starting to drift off several times, though a waft of the salty air wakes me before I go completely. It feels far too late when we make our way back to the train and I fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

_Unlike my usual dreams of drowning in a river of blood, it is now a sea complete with lapping waters and bobbing boats, one of which is on fire. As I drown I watch people leaping from it, Balia and Malcy, already burning. The brothers and sisters of the tributes I outlasted, the faces that have stared at me from the front of the crowds while I spoke, all burning, burning, burning…_

I wake with a jolt as the train gives one of the slight lurches signifying a change in tracks. Sunlight is peeking in already, another day of speeches and angry families and uncomfortable dinners. The home of two tributes who had a good chance until one was eaten alive by giant spiders and the other chose not to kill his former ally while the latter slept. Had Halifax taken that opportunity to end Jasper I doubt any of us could have beaten him.

My prep team end my musings, escorting me to breakfast so that they have time to try something new with my hair before we get there. I let them primp and prod me as usual until Juliette raises a metal wand above my head in the mirror. For a moment I imagine she's about to bring it crashing down on my head and jerk backwards, where I discover it's searingly hot. I yelp, Juliette shrieks and the room is filled with the stench of burned hair.

By the time the damage is repaired and my curls have been ironed out straight by the device, we're running behind. By the time Dido has me in my silver and red dress and my make-up on we're very behind. We hurry as a pack, collectively ignoring Carmenius' whinging about the delay, making it to the stage just in time for the ceremony. Not that they could start without us, but from what little I've seen of them District Two is a very orderly place, very structured. I don't think the people would appreciate having to delay a ceremony over _fashion_ concerns.

I deliver my words to the stony-faced crowd, who do cheer and clap without prompting, though not as enthusiastically as they might if it was one of their own up here. Or their allies even; Careers supporting Careers.

A girl around my age stands for Lucinda's family. Halifax has an older couple that look nothing like him. I wonder if they're really his family, or if they're the people who trained him to fight and kill. I can't imagine loving, caring parents actually encouraging their children to enter the Games.

The mayor of Two is a big, burly man whose smile doesn't extend to his eyes as he all but crushes my hand and gives me a hefty stone-carved plaque I can barely hold. We don't get to meet any of Two's victors at dinner either. I'm seated between Beetee and Carmenius and choose to focus on my meal to blot out our Escort's muttered commentary and constant nudges.

Beetee is no help at all, spending most of the night talking animatedly to the man on his left, who is in charge of all stone shaping and cutting equipment for the district. Both are naturally quiet speakers, but every time I lean in to try and join the conversation Carmenius nudges my arm or leg and snaps at me to stop displaying bad manners. Then returns to shoving down his meal in the most disgusting fashion possible.

After the fifth such elbow I jerk and 'accidentally' spill my mashed potatoes and sauce all over his lap. This has the double benefit of forcing him to leave to change clothes, and to remind Beetee that I'm still there, and the two men do try to include me in the conversation for the short time until the dinner comes to a close.

~xXx~

I manage to avoid Carmenius on my way to bed, and he's still asleep when I rise for breakfast the next morning. The train is already stopped as I make my way through a plate of pancakes and bacon, trying not to think about what is waiting for me outside. I expect by this point of the Victory Tour, most victors have encountered the people of someone they personally killed. While I had a hand in Francis and Damian's deaths, in Halifax's and maybe even Sparrow and Felton's, the only blood on my hands alone was the golden boy from One.

I manage to stay inside for most of the morning, first playing with my tools, then letting my prep team do me up in the most extravagant outfit yet: silvery cloth heavily embroidered with gold threads and tiny sapphires. The matching necklace drags at my throat as I'm finally forced out for the ceremony. I try to pick a space to stare at while I deliver my now-routine speech, but nothing seems to work. The red-gold leaves of the trees lining the square remind me of Jasper's hair, the darker red flowers along the sides of blood. There's a tall tower with a clock face, but the reflections off the metal keep blinding me. Trying to look at the far rows of people doesn't help either. From this distance I can't make out their features, they are just one great horde of fair-haired monsters, muttations coming to get me.

I finish my words as fast as possible, not even caring if I'm coherent as long as I get them done before the mutts come after me. As I reach the last sentences, my gaze slips to the front of the square and I suddenly lose my track. Both families are smiling of course. That smile that tells me they are thinking of a hundred painful ways to end my existence while they wait to applaud. Daniellis was an only child it seems, her parents both sharing her full figure and blonde curls.

Jasper was not, and the girl at the front of the group has absolute murder in her eyes as she stares up at me. The same red-gold hair, the same lanky, lithe figure, probably around my age. I wonder if she plans on volunteering for the next Games just so she can hunt down and kill the female tribute from Three.

Will she smile like she is now when she kills them? Will she laugh, whisper words so that they echo through my head like they are now?

"-ress?"

"-sorry, she has-"

"-see-"

"Wiress?"

My name. That's my name?

My head clears the moment someone touches my arm. Black hair, sunlight flashing off silver. Beetee.

"I…I…I'm sorry, I…"

Words. I was supposed to be saying words, sentences which have fled from my brain. I try to find them, but all I can see is the girl at the front of the crowd hunting me down with that smile, knife at the ready.

Beetee leans in and murmurs "Thanks to people of District One and see you in the Capitol."

I stare at him, uncomprehending. _Why is he thanking me?_

He grabs my arm more insistently, the same way my mother or Balia do when they realize my mind has wandered.

"Look at the crowd, repeat after me: My thanks.."

 _Oh, that's right_. I manage to stammer out the final sentence, and let Beetee support me while I half-listen to the mayor's reply. Another nudge reminds me to take the plaque—inlaid with precious metals and tiny, glittering gemstones—before I leave the stage.

We make it back down into the Justice Building and into one of the side rooms before my legs start shaking uncontrollably. Beetee releases me to collapse into a padded leather chair and lets me try and calm myself before asking, "What happened?"

"She…hair…same…face…" Nothing coherent is coming out any time soon.

Beetee frowns as he tries to deconstruct the words.

"She? Someone in the crowd looked like…? Yes? Hair…oh-"

The door flies open with a crash and Carmenius stalks right up to my chair, looming over me with a snarl.

"What the hell was that? You embarrassed us all! You-"

I try to stand, to let his fear of my unstable behaviour make him back off but my knees barely hold and I wobble slightly. Carmenius takes this opportunity to slap me across the face and shove me back into the chair as he continues ranting. The moment he strikes me I feel the monster rise from the depths where it's been hiding these last months, ready to fight back.

Before I can strike a blur of motion at my side resolves to two bodies rolling on the floor. Beetee is head and shoulders smaller than the lanky Capitolian, but that doesn't seem to stop him gaining purchase on Carmenius's heaving chest, raining down ineffectual blows. He seems to realize this and shifts his hands to the larger man's throat, bearing down with what little weight he has, screaming into the slowly reddening face.

"You have disrespected her, disrespected us. Pushed us, degraded us. But you don't TOUCH her. YOU DON'T TOUCH HER! EVER!"

As though the scene is playing out on a screen, it takes until Carmenius' face is nearly purple before I realize I should probably do something. Crouching over them, I manage to hook my hands under Beetee's arms and jerk backwards with all my strength, letting him fall back on top of me. For a moment the blind panic surges, the weight of him across my body, pinning me down. The colourful room swirls, gasping, yelling, strange noises ebb and flow. The doorway is filled with craning faces, peering eyes, open mouths chattering gibberish. Strange birds, heads tilting from side to side, arms waving….

"Arrest him! He…he attacked me!"

The world comes back into focus with a snap. Carmenius is on his knees, face still red as he points at Beetee's heaving, curled form. The words come as squeaky gasps, like a poorly oiled joint. An old robot that no-one cares about anymore, stored away in a cupboard. The thought makes me giggle.

"They're both" gasp "crazy! Should be" cough "locked up!"

The pair of peacekeepers step forward uncertainly, but a smaller figure barges between them, hurrying to my side where she touches my face. As her fingertips trace my cheekbone, the sting appears and I wince. Dido's face hardens and she turns on Carmenius.

"Did you hit her?"

"I….she was hysterical. She tried to stab me so I…"

His voice cracks again, and Dido cuts in sharply, "Stab you with what? I see no weapon."

Carmenius takes a few more gasps before answering. "She must have hid it! Strip her down and search her, you'll find it. Now arrest them both!"

"She didn't touch him."

The whole room turns in the direction of the quiet voice. Beetee, leaning on the armrest , small frame still heaving with the effort of his attack. When he looks at me I can see the monster dancing in those red-rimmed eyes still; caged but not dead. Only ever sleeping.

This is the boy who stabbed a stylist with a nail file. The boy who sat and watched, unblinking as his web of wire snares held five bodies while electricity surged through them. The boy who threw an even smaller girl to his enemies at his Cornucopia to get a jar of cookies and a metal spike.

"She didn't touch him," he says again, fingers clenching and unclenching, reaching up to straighten his glasses and smooth down his hair.

"She was struggling to speak after she recognized Jasper Noble's sister in the crowd-" he pauses to glance at me, and I nod confirmation.

"And I was trying to calm her when Carmenius started yelling. He hit her, and I…"

He ducks his head, the boy still, in trouble.

"You stopped him from doing further damage to the reigning Hunger Games victor."

Dido's sharp words cut across Carmenius' protests, as do her instructions to the peacekeepers. Take him somewhere to clean up and calm down. No, just ignore his ranting. Yes, she's sure, now can she get some help here to fix the damage to my face before the dinner tonight?

The panic surge ebbs back down as the room clears out, and once Carmenius' loud protests are out of earshot my pulse dips back down to normal. I manage to stand for the two seconds it takes to collapse back into the chair. Beetee is still sitting half-curled against the side, so that my hand on the armrest nearly brushes his sleek black hair. He's still clenching and unclenching his fingers and taking deep breaths, so we let him be until Lorcan arrives with creams and powders for my face.

I'm a little surprised when he comes through the door, as he's the only one of the prep team who doesn't usually do make-up, but when he smothers a gasp and gets on with covering the mark I understand. Juliette would have screeched about it for half an hour and Maruis wouldn't wait until the end of the dinner to tell everyone within earshot. I'm pretty sure Lorcan is the youngest of the trio, but he seems the most logical and sensible. The most human, at least by my standards.

The dinner is terrible. Our seating is arranged so that I'm between the mayor's wife and Carmenius, with Beetee on his other side. None of us speak. We try to avoid touching or looking at one-another. Half-way through the main course the painkillers wear off and my face starts aching again, every bite of roast goose making me whimper.

Eventually I shove the half-empty plate aside, ignoring the dark look from the woman beside me. She tried talking to me at the start of the dinner, but got frustrated at my inability to reply properly and hasn't said a word since the mains were served. For once I find myself wishing she were someone from the Capitol instead; they wouldn't have had a problem keeping up the conversation by themselves and I would have had a good excuse to ignore Carmenius.

When they bring out dessert I all but launch myself from the table, out the door towards the bathroom, where I spend the next half-hour trying to purge my mind of the giant cake, drowned in glistening red. By the time my stomach is empty I've re-railed my logical mind back to the thought that they wouldn't serve a cake with blood sauce, that it must be some fruit or sugary glaze or something, though I still wouldn't have been able to eat it.

Dido finds me eventually, with wipes and water, and doesn't say a word as she helps clean my face and hair. She also doesn't mention the stains on her silver and gold creation, though she purses her bleached lips when she sees them. She stays with me until the dinner ends and we slip out to join the rest for the cars back to the train. I step aboard to find Carmenius waiting, a piece of the cake with its dripping red sauce on a plate. He smirks cruelly and holds it out to me.

"I saved you a slice. Wouldn't want our _precious_ _victor_ to miss out."

My body reacts before my mind does, snatching the moist offering and hurling it at him, the red icing and chunks of cake dribbling down his outraged face and shirtfront.

No one stops me as I race to my compartment, slam the door shut and spend the next hour scrubbing every last bit of red off my hands.


	5. Chapter 5

My prep team wake me from my broken sleep, their shrill chatter seemingly echoing through my skull.

"Good MORNING Wiress!" Juliette trills as she throws the curtains wide. I groan and turn away from the weak light. Early. Why are they here so early?

I glance at the clock as I roll out of bed, confirming that it's well before the Capitol folk usually rise as Marius directs me towards the bathroom, where the water is already running.

"It's so lovely to be back home," Juliette continues as she helps me out of my nightgown and into the tub. "We have time for a quick clean-up before you get dressed, it's going to be such a busy—what HAVE you done to your hands?"

She shrieks the last and nearly pulls me off-balance as she grasps my wrists and turns the palms upwards. My skin is red and chafed, and there are several nail-marks, crescent scratches, remnants of my violent scrubbing.

"I…there was…blood…cake…"

She heaves a sigh and practically throws me back into the tub.

"We heard about that," Marius says with a grin as he lines up a series of bottles along the shelf. "Carmenius was furious, though I don't know what he was complaining about. That raspberry drizzle was delicious."

He licks his wide, green-lined lips and I suppress a shudder. Lie back in the water and let them scrub away at my body and hair, pretending they are robots, until I'm forced to surface back to reality. Dido has my clothes laid out on the bed, alongside a small breakfast tray. They brush my hair out while I eat and soon I'm covered in a swirl of vines and flowers, head to toe, as though I stepped into the hedge of my arena and let it twirl around me.

I don't get a moment to breathe for the rest of the day, our disembarkment to a crowd of screaming faces leads to a tour around the central streets in an open-topped car, people lining the streets waving and cheering.

Carmenius and Dido have a car of their own in front of ours, leaving myself and Beetee to be the focus of the horde. He seems better today, smiling and waving, no sign of the monster, buried deep once more. As we roll around he points out places of interest: the design school, a wonder of architecture itself with scrolled pillars and impossible angles; the gigantic broadcast studio, where the compilation of film from events such as the Games are put together; four engineering workshops belonging to various wealthy companies, all of whom he's aided in return for sponsorship over the years.

We make an appearance at a school which has been refurbished to cut a ribbon and declare it open, and there's an early afternoon signing, where I spend an hour scrawling my name on various pictures and programs, watching the letters get shakier and shakier as the time goes on. Thankfully the length of the queue prevents anyone from trying to have a conversation with me.

Finally there's a presentation at the gigantic university library, where I don't try to contain my excitement when the Chancellor presents me with a small book collection. It's a history of Panem and of the Games but I don't care. They're books and they are mine.

By late afternoon we make it to the Training Center, back to those familiar rooms that I'm going to get to know and hate in the years to come. For now they offer a brief moment of peace and quiet as I change out of the flowered wreath and into the shimmering gold affair I'll be wearing for the interview. Over the heavily embroidered gold silk, Dido drapes a lacy overdress stitched with hundreds of tiny diamonds, so that I glitter with every step. Finally she adds the necklace, a simple silver chain set with a mock-up of Ezra's ring in gold and diamonds. My district token made Capitol.

I clasp it like I did in the Arena every time my mind slips to the upcoming interview, live in front of an audience of thousands. Lorcan appears from Beetee's room, where he's been suiting up my mentor, and tries to jolly me up with technical talk. It doesn't work.

I flip through one of my new books for a bit, enjoying the smell of fresh paper and the soft, shiny paper between my fingers. The pictures are bright and glossy, so different from the worn and dusty schoolbooks I've grown up with.

"Fascinating stuff?"

I look up to find Beetee perched on the couch armrest, peering over my shoulder. We haven't really spoken properly since he lost control back in District One. Neither of us seem to feel the need to talk about it. I like that about Beetee. We understand one another without needing difficult words or explanations.

"So shiny and…and.."

"New," he finishes, reaching out to brush the pages with his calloused fingertips. "Just like the history inside it."

Almost as soon as he speaks, he winces, glances guiltily around the empty room and fidgets with his glasses for a few moments.

"I…er…do you want to practice again?"

Before we left for the tour we spent long hours practicing answers to the standard interview questions, so that when I'm asked I should be able to dump out an answer from stored memory. Just an animated robot, following my programming.

"-take that as a no."

Beetee smiles ruefully as he fusses with his hair, and I realize I must have zoned out again.

"I-"

"Time!" A voice calls through the door, and I see Lorcan poke his head around a few second later. "Time to head down."

One last clasp of the ring around my neck and we're off, down in the lift, where I can see the sparkling lights and heaving masses of people in below, already in place. Like crawling little ants near their hive, swarming, crunching….

I find myself involuntarily shuddering, the memory of the crawling bodies, the agonizing fiery pain of their bites, the horror that I might spend my last moments being devoured by insects almost overwhelming.

The hiss of the elevator door brings me back to reality, and I'm hustled off to the side-stage area, where Caesar Flickerman greets me with that famous flashing white smile and a gentle hug.

"Wiress, lovely to see you. All ready I hope?"

I do hope I'm ready. He squeezes my arm gently and I manage to force down all panic at the contact and smile. A good sign.

In the end it is fairly painless. Caesar focuses mostly on my talent as an extension of my traps and creations in the Arena, letting me segue back and forth about how I've spent most of my life making things, and how much better it is now that I have my own house and workshop. There's questions about boys, which I can honestly answer that I've had nothing to do with. Questions about my family, how they've settled in to life in the Village. I don't mention Wiran or the sickness that has been plaguing our district, as per Beetee's instructions. The Capitolians prefer not to hear about the outside world having problems like that apparently.

Yes, the Capitol is still architecturally beautiful, especially now I've had a chance to see some of the sights up close and without the threat of imminent death lingering. Of course I'm looking forward to coming back in six months time for the next Games, an answer I practiced over and over until I could say it convincingly without feeling sick.

I falter here and there, when my words escape me but Caesar is there to catch it and I'm fairly sure when he wraps it all up that I'm far from the worst they've had to do. More importantly, it's the second last event on the Victory Tour before I get to go home. One more gala and I have six months to recover. Six months of workshop therapy.

My fingers are already itching for a screwdriver as we're swept out to the waiting cars.

~xXx~

I take Dido's advice to heart and limit myself to exactly two alcoholic drinks during the course of the night. The waiters give me odd looks at first when I request something non-alcoholic, but after a few stuttering attempts I come up with the idea of telling them about my medication, and pretending that alcohol interferes with it. After that they bring around glasses of some sweet nectary liquid, which is cloying, but doesn't make my head spin so much.

There's more than enough going on in the great banquet hall without losing focus. President Snow makes only a perfunctory appearance at the start of the night, despite technically being the host. His disappearance doesn't bother me in the slightest, as there are enough people of importance swarming me to keep me busy for the first few hours.

I try to stay near Beetee or Dido, and to avoid Carmenius where possible, but the press of people going to and from the food tables or the dance floor keeps pulling us apart. I'm trying to escape an uncomfortable conversation with an older couple who keep giving me strange winks and smiles when a tap on my shoulder makes me whirl and gasp, hands reaching for something…

I freeze when I meet the eyes of Minister Redfern, one of my main sponsors, whose gift helped save my life six months ago. She smiles coldly and flicks her fingers dismissively at the older couple, who leave without protest.

"Wiress Ling." Even her voice is cold, emotionless. A shiver runs down my spine and the corners of her mouth twitch further.

"A moment of your time?"

It's not a question, and when she heads for a door in the far wall I follow. I try to spot Beetee or Dido, or even one of my prep team in the crowd, to let them know where I'm going, but there's no familiar faces in this area of the room. I can only assume the Minister wants to speak to me about repaying some of the debt owed for their sponsorship.

I remember Beetee saying he didn't want to use them unless he was desperate due the repayment of a previous debt. He wouldn't say what, and I have to hope that they are not seeking similar recompense from me.

The door opens to a small chamber, three chairs and a small table the only furnishings. The Minister drops into one of them and waves for me to take the other, frowning briefly at my momentary hesitation to comply.

"You are aware of course that my husband and I, at my daughter's request, made a not insubstantial sponsorship donation during your Games?"

No preliminaries, none of the usual Capitol tendency towards small talk. It almost makes me like her more. I nod when I realize she is waiting for a reply of sorts, still tense, worried about what she might want from me.

"Certainly we have spent more in the past, and perhaps would have spent more then, if required. You presented a unique opportunity that may nicely solve a problem for me."

This time her smile is tight and brief, but appears more genuine.

"You do remember my daughter Clara? She's about your age, and decidedly uninterested in things most girls her age are. My husband and I are both involved with engineering and architecture, and she has picked up on it—perhaps why she always insists on throwing our money at your district, and District Five. It has resulted in her seeking company with…well…people of lower standing than I would like. And men and boys, never any girls. Proper girls at any rate."

The last is added with a sullen scowl and she pauses to stare at me while I work through what she has said.

"You want me...to..."

She draws herself upright again, and gives me another of those tight-lipped smiles.

"I want you to be Clara's...friend, I suppose. A companion who I don't have to worry is only hanging about her to try and borrow money to pay off bad debts or get her into trouble. Someone she can talk to about things she enjoys who also holds some status."

The edginess I felt when she took me aside fades in a moment of clarity. From the brief conversation I've had with Clara, I already like her. And from what I've heard there are so many worse ways I could be requested to repay a sponsorship debt.

"I...that...I would very much..."

Minister Redfern lets me catch my thoughts and straighten them up.

"I would be happy to...to ...be friends with...with..."

Her smile widens the tiniest bit and jumps for a moment to her eyes.

"Excellent. I'll deal with all the necessary paperwork, and arrange for you to visit...once a month? Yes? Good. I believe they provide accommodations for victors in the Capitol when necessary. I suppose it's too late to start now, what with a festival planned in your own District. So one month's time then. I'll be in touch."

This time she doesn't give me time to finish processing before she flicks her fingers in dismissal. Hesitantly I stand, and when she draws a comm-unit from her purse and begins dialing I slip out the door, my pulse still not back to normal.

A hand grasps my shoulder as I step out and I nearly throw Beetee into a table of champagne glasses.

"Beetee..what are you..."

He catches himself on the edge of the table and immediately pushes back to hold my shoulders again.

"Wiress, you're..." He ruefully shakes his head and I notice his hands are trembling too where he grasps my upper arms uncomfortably tight.

"Someone said they saw Thenassa Redfern take you aside into a private room and I thought...I mean I ...did she say something about her sponsorship?"

He peers worriedly into my face, still holding on too tight. Even though it's Beetee the low panic starts to swell. I can feel the trembling starting, uncontrollably taking over.

I force his hands away and grab the nearest glass, no longer worrying about alcohol limits. I just need something else to focus on for a moment to pull myself together. The champagne bubbles down my throat, and the dancing light through the ornate glass throws interesting patterns on my arms and on the table in front of me.

It doesn't take too long for my pulse to slow and my breath to come steady. Once I'm sure of myself again I turn back to Beetee, who has his fingers clasped behind his back. I guess he finally remembered.

"She...Minister Redfern wanted...wanted me to..."

I see him starting to frown again as my words trail away, and force out "Nothing bad."

His frown turns from worry to puzzlement, and I see some of the tension drain from his stance.

"She wants me to ...Clara...friends..."

That makes his eyebrows jump, and he unclenches his arms and picks up his own glass of champagne, twirling it like I did to catch the light before sipping.

"Oh," he says after a few seconds. "That makes sense. I thought-"

I never get to hear what he thought, as every speaker in the room starts blaring a familiar tune. I move until I can see the stage just as the first words are sung, crystal clear, by a stunning blonde in flowing white. Theodosia Laird, winner of the most recent _Talent Stars_ series is singing my Grandma's song.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now I'm found

The Capitol set me free"

I frown as the last line warbles on. Those are definitely not the words I learned, and I know Grandma said the song was from well before Panem was founded.

"Throughout the years of war and fear

My heart always believed

How precious did that grace appear

When Panem was relieved"

I can't stand to hear it any more, that sacred old song with its forbidden lyrics being twisted to a new and evil agenda. I manage to get to the garden without being stopped, and I slump against the wall between a pair of flowering bushes, their vibrant clusters of purple and pink flowers comforting as they brush my head and shoulders.

It takes me a moment to recognize the coolness on my face as tears, and I nearly wipe them away before remembering the make-up I'm wearing. Dido will be mad enough about the dirt stains from the garden-bed. I can still hear the music playing, though the actual words are muffled, and I let it swirl around me, imagine it carrying me away on its tune. Back home to the safety of my District and the warm loving care of my family.

Footsteps swishing through the grass bring me to my senses, and it takes a moment to realize that the music is no longer blaring, and may well have stopped some time ago. I open my eyes and tilt my head up, wincing at the twinge along my neck and shoulders. How long have I been sitting here?

"Are you sad?"

It takes me a moment to focus, and suddenly there's a boy peering at me, maybe nine or ten years old.

"My nanny says we should never be sad if we can be happy instead," he informs me while I search my brain, trying to work out where I've seen him before. Something familiar about those pale gray eyes and full, pouty mouth.

"I'm Caius," he adds with a small nod, "And if anyone is looking for me I'm not here, never was."

It's such a mischievous Balia-like response that I can't help smiling.

"I'll...I'll keep that in...in mind..," I manage, bracing against the wall as force myself to stand.

He doesn't offer any help, just stands there with his head tilted to the side, lips pursed in thought.

"You're Wiress Ling. I remember carrying your crown back in May. You were really clever in your Games, but I'm glad I'll never be reaped. It looked sort of scary."

Of course. Caius Snow, the President's son. He's not shown on television much, but he's carried the victor's crown the last few years during the presentation ceremony. I don't get a chance to respond to him, as he sees a distant figure marching determinedly across the grass from one of the building wings and quickly scurries in the opposite direction.

The approaching figure looks very grumpy and matronly, and I decide that inside suddenly doesn't seem like all that bad an idea. I barely make it through the arched doorway before Beetee spots me and pulls me aside, waving across the hall at several attendants.

"I was about to send out a search-party," he says, and I notice a slight slur to his words that suggests he may not have listened to his own advice about drinking. "We'll be leaving in a few minutes, over that way."

I make one last round of the tables to grab some more of the strawberry pastries, and head for the door where Carmenius is already waiting. He sneers at me before finishing his drink and reaches out to pinch the bottom of the server who takes his empty glass. She gives him a disgustingly adoring look in return, and giggles when he slips an arm around her shoulder and gives her a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

He turns to me with an unpleasant leer and says "These ladies know how to act around a man. Properly brought up, unlike you District rabble. You'd do well to remember it bitch."

The girl, who looks younger than me, and must be barely half his age laughs again as he buries his face in her hair. I strongly consider shoving the pair of them into the nearest table, but decide against it when Beetee meanders over, looking a little unsteady on his feet. This time I take his arm to steady him, and help him into the waiting car, turning and slamming the door before Carmenius can get in. Our Escort is still distracted by the girl, so that he doesn't notice the car pulling away until it's too late.

"'s fine," Beetee says when our driver starts to slow. "He can take the other one. Dido and Lorcan are already gone ahead. Do his ego some good."

So we drive on in relative peace, through the streets which at home would be silent, but here are still filled with revelers. A great clock chimes overhead as we pull up at the train station. Lorcan helps me get Beetee to his room, and I get to mine and throw the bolt before Carmenius is on board. I bury my head under a pillow until he stops pounding on my door. The swaying train lulls me off to a relatively peaceful sleep, and when I wake in the morning it's to the familiar winter winds whistling across the barren plains and through the tall concrete buildings of home.


	6. Chapter 6

The final event on the Victory Tour takes place in the town square, where the Capitol has rigged a temporary plastic cover over the wide stone plaza to keep out the pouring rain. Tall column heaters rise from the ground every thirty feet, and the long lines of tables between speakers boast a multitude of soups and stews, and fresh steaming breads to dip in them. About a quarter of the district turns out, a little over twenty thousand people over the course of the afternoon and evening. Enough to make me want to run and hide. Instead I sit at a table on the stage, my family coming and going around me as they take turns to see the entertainment and fetch more food.

A pair of identical twins set up a fire juggling act that has every person under fifteen mesmerized near the foot of the stage. A group of acrobats manage more and more incredible feats of balance and flexibility, finishing with a girl as tall and skinny as me twisting her body through a fourteen-inch diameter metal hoop.

There's singers and comedians, people we normally only see on television. Aristotle Kent, who hosts a cooking show, keeps a large crowd interested as he makes artful candies and gives them out to his watchers. Linus Perkett, who plays Detective Winter on the mystery show _Underground_ has the district children help him 'solve' the crime of the stolen cookie jar.

More than once I hear the strains of Amazing Grace start up and I have to force myself not to wince. The new re-written version put together by one of my sponsors Yellan Garfunkel is fully Capitol approved, and someone decided to make it my "victory anthem". As much as I hate the desecration of my favorite song, compared to last year's winner I can't complain. Denissa Flow's "victory anthem" was all about getting wet and ready to party.

Finally the night draws down and the people disperse. Over half of the factories were closed today for the holiday, but for the rest, and for those who work the dawn shift in the morning it will be business as usual.

When I visit the town center a week later to buy some capacitors for one of my hovertoys there's not a trace of the festival remaining. Probably won't be another for a very long time.

The last of the reporters leaves after a fortnight, and two weeks after that I've all but forgotten my scheduled visit to the Capitol until a phone-call the night before reminds me. Beetee sees me off at the train station, where a scowling attendant checks over the paperwork and signals someone to carry my bag aboard the first carriage.

Beetee holds my arm a little too tightly and looks me in the eyes before I get on board.

"Be careful," he says softly. "I wish I could go with you, but...just...be careful OK?"

I promise him I will, and force myself not to look back as I step aboard, shivering from not just the cold.

The train isn't like the tribute transport ones, which run for Games business. All but the front two carriages are for goods transport, and while the padded couch seems comfortable enough for me, the two Capitol liaisons I'm travelling with discuss how barbaric the conditions always are out in the districts.

Neither of them seems particularly inclined to talk to me, so I pass the hours watching the desert, then the rocky wilds pass by, finally falling into a shallow sleep until I feel the steady deceleration that marks our arrival.

Stepping out onto the nearly empty platform, my head still swirling a little from my nap, the world around me seems somewhat surreal. There's a few people passing by, two in the drab white clothing that marks Avoxes, another in a spotty purple suit who is screaming at a cringing assistant about the quality of their last wig shipment. On the far side of the platform, two men step forwards dressed in the black and gold suits that mark out official drivers.

One of them beckons to me while the other leads away the Capitol Liasons to a waiting car.

"Miss Ling? Minister Redfern wishes me to take you to your apartment to refresh yourself, and then I will transport you to your afternoon meeting."

He looks at me until I shrug and step towards him. It's not like I have a choice. He waves over one of the Avoxes to take my bag and leads me to a gleaming black car with gold stripes.

The apartment he drives me to is in a spiraling tower not far from the Training Center. I'm directed to room 48 on the tenth floor, which suggests that every victor has a room here, even though two have already passed on. I don't remember what happened to the District One man though I have a vague memory of seeing the funeral on the news. The District Six victor apparently suffered a heart attack shortly after the Games when I was eight. For all I know it's even the truth.

The lift runs through the core of the building takes me to a circular brightly lit corridor, painted in garish yellow and orange spirals. The room doors are in the outer circle, equally spaced apartments bigger than our entire family unit was at home.

The first door, number 46 has an engraved sign on it with the name Whisper Stalk. Around the edges of the metal plate there are several painted wheat-stalks, just like the ones Whisper wove into the grass noose that ended six lives. I hope that mine has flowers, not knives.

The next door to the right is 47, with the name Denissa Flow. There's no painted markings here. Then I remember that Denissa didn't come to the Capitol for my Games, and if she had she would have been with the mentors in the Training Center. The next door has my name engraved on it, and also lacks any further decoration. I wonder idly if Whisper painted on the wheat-stalks herself, and if some of the other victors have added decorations on the other floors as I press my thumb to the black pad. The door clicks and I step into a well appointed room painted in a much more comforting sky blue color.

The single bedroom has plenty of space for both bed and worktable, with several empty shelves just begging for some books or contraptions. The living room has two couches, one facing the television unit in the wall, the other overlooking the city. A table large enough to seat four and a small kitchen area fill the open space. The other door leads to a bathroom nearly identical to the one I remember from the Training Center.

The clock on the wall tells me it's a quarter to three, giving me half an hour to get ready. A quick shower and a change into one of Dido's less flashy dresses, with a warm jacket added over the shoulders, and I feel nearly ready to face the Capitol again. I shove the bag into the bedroom and force myself to head back down to the lobby and the waiting car.

The driver takes us back out into the city streets, the shaded windows blocking out most of the bright colors worn by passers-by. He stops by a street cluttered with people seated around tables. The shops behind seem to all be food and drink places. Cafes, apparently. A girl at one of the nearby tables has a familiar puff of flame-colored hair, and smiles and waves as I step out.

"Wiress, it's so good to see you. Here Terry."

She hands the driver some money and grins back as he smiles and tips his hat.

"Call when you're ready Miss Redfern," he says cheerfully as he leaves.

I watch as the sleek black car pulls away, and nearly jump out of my skin when someone takes my hand and pulls.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Clara says with another grin. "Terry's nice, isn't he? His brother is one of my friends, and he was in some money trouble so I got my parents to hire him. Now he's just so reliable and handsome too."

I try not to look too confused, and she laughs.

"This must be very strange for you, I bet. Here, let's get some coffee."

She waves over a waiter and orders two large caramel mochas, whatever they are. She gives me an odd look when I try to pay the waiter; apparently here they don't pay until after they're finished eating and drinking. The coffee is glorious, so sweet and rich that I force myself not to guzzle it all at once. I've already made enough of a barbaric district gaffe apparently.

"Don't you have cafes in your district?" Clara asks as she idly twirls her spoon around her fingers.

"No," I say softly, not adding that if they did they wouldn't trust people to pay up the money after they had finished.

"Well where do you go if you want to get a bite to eat while you're out?"

"Home," I say dryly and she pulls a face.

"It must be so dull out there in the districts. No restaurants either?"

"Two," I say, remembering how exciting it was to actually go as a family and eat there. "Only open on...on...on...Friday and... and...Saturday nights...though."

She winces at my stuttered speech. "I looked up those Limbo flowers, and the records of the drug. Apparently the only thing that works is-"

"Chlorazan," I finish for her. "Twice a...a...a..."

"Day," she says with a nod. "And you're already on that? Well I guess we'll just have to wait for it to start working."

We finish the drinks in silence, or at least as quiet as it gets with the surrounding buzz of people and cars. Clara waves away my wallet and leaves the money on the table, plus a little extra. Tipping, she calls it, apparently the done thing here. She says ten percent, but I realize she's left more like thirty. She sees my frown and smiles as she takes my arm.

"I always give a bit extra when I can. It's not like I need it, and for anyone working here, they probably do need it. Now, do you want to go see the founding museum? It's only a couple of blocks."

We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering from place to place, seeing the sights as Clara puts it. When she realizes I don't mind, she keeps up most of the conversation, telling me all about the school trip to the museum where she snuck off to look at the old paintings and got left behind by the teacher, or the time she and her friends accidentally broke the glass statue of old President Yates in Victory Square. Apparently her parents made her pay for the repairs out of her own pocket money, but she didn't care because she got to meet the glasswork artist and pester her with questions.

She offers to show me around the Games museum, but I can't quite bring myself to walk in the door. She seems to understand, and instead we head back to the restaurant strip to find somewhere for dinner. Throughout the day I noticed a number of people recognize me, but with Clara beside me none of them approached.

As we sit down to eat at a place called Pizzeria, the young man who serves our table takes one look at my face and becomes very tongue tied. When Clara excuses herself to the restroom he scurries over and asks if I'll sign his notebook. As I scrawl my signature he tells me in a low whisper that he's a mathematics student at the University by day, and was a huge fan. He vanishes before Clara gets back, and when he brings us the bill he doesn't make eye contact. I argue Clara down into letting me pay, pointing out that my victor's salary is plenty enough. She smiles ruefully and says "Mom will be _so_ pleased."

I think back to my conversation with Minister Redfern, and how she described Clara's other friends as money grubbers. From what I've seen of Clara, she probably lends or gives her friends money without prompting, just because she knows she can afford to. I make sure to leave a healthy tip with the bill, earning a nod of approval from my new friend.

She informs me that since the whole nation knows I'm not eighteen yet, and she doesn't have a spare fake identification card, there's no point heading for the clubs. Instead she calls Terry to take us to her house. "If you want to, that is. Don't worry, Mom has meetings until eleven and Dad will be out for cards."

The house Terry drops us at is jawdroppingly beautiful. Clara grins and punches my arm in a friendly way as I stand on the sidewalk admiring the view.

"My dad _is_ one of the best architects in Panem, you know. And since Mom is the Minister for Infrustructure and Technology she got him a permit to build whatever he wanted."

Her room is actually most of the eastern wing of the mansion, with its own kitchen and bathroom and entertainment room. The television is bigger than the one in my victor's apartment, and is connected to a gaming console with a stack of games beside it. Her actual bedroom is all purple and turquoise , the walls covered in framed charcoal sketches of buildings. I recognize one as the Training Center, and another as the President's mansion. A third looks a lot like the broadcast center I remember Beetee pointing out during the Victory Tour a month ago.

"They're not perfect," she says with a shrug. "But I'm getting better."

"You drew these?" I ask with honest admiration. "Nice." They're as good as what I could have done.

She grins and flops back onto her bed. "It's so nice actually being able to have a friend over. Mom doesn't like any of the friends I've made in high school. She wants me to hang out with the popular kids, but they're _sooo_ boring. All they ever talk about is clothes and who is going out and singers and movie stars. I mean those things can be interesting for a bit, but there's more to life than that."

I nod in full agreement. She sits up, absently fixing her hair as she asks, "What do you do in your free time?"

"I make things," I say, smiling as she waves her hand to extrapolate. "I design, build...things. Whatever I...I...want...really. Read. Draw. Play with my...my...with Balia and Malcy."

She frowns minutely at the mention of my siblings, then shrugs, sprawling back on bed again. "I wish I could just do that. Make whatever I wanted. It sounds like the best life ever. You're so lucky."

Without thinking, my hand goes to the hidden scar on my chest. Lucky to be alive.

She winces. "Sorry. I guess compared to what most of your district has, my life looks pretty good."

"Yeah," I say honestly. Haltingly I tell her a bit about district life. About the tall gray apartment blocks where we live like tinned fish squished in a can. About the factories, and how your neck aches if you work sitting and your feet ache if you work standing, and how your back aches no matter what, but you keep working without complaint because it means money for food and rent. We talk about my workshop, and how much fun it is to work with Beetee, who Clara says she's always admired. I tell her about the design rooms and engineer workshops I'd always assumed I would end up in. She tells me about the architecture course she's planning on taking at the university next semester, on top of her normal high school classes.

She suggests I try to get a pass to come study at the University for at least a semester or two. I tell her I'll look into it. It does sound interesting, but I'm not sure I could go that long in the Capitol, away from my family. Finally the clock ticks over to 10pm, and she suggests I head home to sleep before her Mom gets back. It sounds like an excellent idea to me.

I manage not to fall asleep in the car, but it's a near thing. Terry helps me out and waits until I'm inside the lobby of the victor's spire before he drives away. He promises to be back at 11 the next morning with Clara. We'll be meeting some of her actual friends, the ones her mother doesn't approve of at the carnival park.

I make it back up to my room and strip down for bed, and even remember to set the alarm clock in case I don't wake at my usual time before slipping off to sleep.

~xXx~

The carnival is so bright and noisy and full of people, it takes most of my concentration not to run screaming. Clara's friends help somewhat with that, and it doesn't take me long after being introduced to see why Minister Redfern doesn't like them. Pearson Gould, Perry he corrects with a flirtatious grin and arm around Clara's shoulders, is a first year engineering student at the university. His best friend is the heavily pierced Gamicus Wilkes, who is actually Clara's first cousin on her father's side, apparently the only reason her parents tolerate him. He works for a branch of Mr Redfern's construction company. Gamicus tries to sling a similarly companionable arm around my shoulders, but Clara tells him off and shoves him away with a grin. He holds his hands up in surrender, laughing as he smooths his bright purple mowhawk into sharper peaks.

Royan Colter, Terry's brother, who has also just started work for the construction company. His Capitol accent is much less pronounced than the others, and he admits he's from the poorer end of town. He also tells me, when we end up sitting together at lunch, that their company recently got the grant for arena construction for the Games, starting with the Quarter Quell arena for eighteen months time.

I tense at the thought of the Games, but force myself to relax and keep talking. Anyone involved with designing and building the arenas would be very useful to know as a mentor.

Helia Astarol is on my other side during lunch, an odd-looking woman in her early twenties who turns out to be as smart as she is shy. Her accent, in contrast to Royan's, sounds almost overpronounced, and she's completely covered in spiraling fractal pattern tattoos. She mentions quietly that she works for Nikarchus Heavensbee, though she doesn't specify what on.

The last of the group is a girl around my age, which makes her about two years older than Clara. Odelia Morganson, the daughter of the glass-artist who Clara had to pay to fix the statue. Odelia does some sculpture work like her mother, but apparently is more interested in using her skills on buildings.

When it comes time to split the bill for lunch, Royan winces as he reaches for his wallet and Perry comically slaps his forehead and announces that he forgot to bring money. Clara covers him, and the tip for the whole group without comment.

We spend the afternoon wandering the carnival, playing the side-show games, or in my case watching as I'm not good at throwing things hard or accurately. I try the darts game after Clara and Gamicus hound me, but my fingers shake so much that I struggle to even hit the board. Gamicus offers to hold my fingers in place with his, and I instead hand him the darts, and tell him to show me how it's done.

He doesn't hit enough points to win a prize, but Royan, who goes next on a dare from Clara wins a stuffed cat toy. He turns to offer it to Clara, sees her wrestling with Perry over one of her hair-clips, and smiles shyly at me instead.

"Want a kitty toy?"

I take it, figuring I can give it to Malcy or Balia when I get home. Gamicus spends the rest of the afternoon teasing Royan about it.

Several of them try the rope ladder climb, though only Odelia makes it all the way to the top, earning herself a giant stuffed lizard toy, which she makes Gamicus carry for her.

I try to beg off the fast rides, but Clara won't have any of it, hauling me into a carriage with Odelia and Helia while the boys argue about who gets to sit next to which of us. The ride zooms off, leaving them still arguing on the platform, and I find I actually enjoy the wind rushing past as the line of carriages spins and twists around. Beside me, Clara laughs freely, her hair unbound and streaming everywhere as she leans her face into the wind. Odelia looks almost bored, and Helia pretends not to be cowering at the back of the carriage, turning greener in the face at every twist.

The ride ends, and it takes me a minute to stop wobbling sideways as we walk out, Odelia and I each taking one of Helia's arms to support her as Clara runs back over to the boys. I hear Helia mutter "She knows I hate the fast ones," and notice that there's not a trace of Capitol accent. If anything she sounds like Diya Patel, one of the victors from District Five. Looks like her too a bit, with the middling brown skin and glossy black hair common to parts of that area.

When Clara asks if we all had fun, Helia answers in her normal, slightly overdone Capitol accent, and I wonder if she's originally from the districts. There's a handful of scholarships each year, for the best and brightest (once past reaping age, of course) to go to the Capitol and become new people. One of them is for science, which I was considering applying for once I reached nineteen, though they only take one person a year, and then only if they think they are good enough. It also means leaving your family and friends behind forever, something I'm not sure I could ever willingly do.

Around six we break up to head home, or in mine and Clara's case out to dinner again. Gamicus and Perry rejoin us at the restaurant, where Clara makes a scowling Perry pay for the first round of drinks now that he has his wallet.

He brings back wine, even though Clara and I are underage. I start to ask if it's all right for us to be drinking it, and Clara winks, and says "Why do you think I sent _him_."

The food is spicy noodles and filled pastry balls called dumplings. Once I get used to the slight burn, I thoroughly enjoy it and clear my plate. Gamicus buys a second round of drinks, and I start to feel a little light-headed. Remembering my victory tour, I stick to fruit juice after that, ignoring both the boys' teasing.

They decide to hit the dance clubs once we're done, and Clara looks forlornly after them for a minute, before shaking her head and announcing that she still has homework to do before tomorrow anyway. Terry drops me back at the Victor's Spire, and Clara gives me a quick hug and says she can't wait until next month.

It's not that late when I get up to my room, so I flick on the television. The main story is about the messy divorce of singer Petra Salles and her manager Cicero Owen. Apparently both are claiming the other was involved in infidelity, running false bank accounts and unlawful business practices. The report moves on to the tragic death of Faustas Kentwood, who had a heart attack in the early hours of the morning, and his three estranged children, wife and mistress who are already arguing about the will while the body is carried from the building. A waterskiing display on the Capitol Lake, the unveiling of a new enclosure in the zoo containing black and white bears—pandas—previously thought to be extinct.

Horror at a fashion show as one model's shoe broke, sending her tumbling off the stage. I don't recognize the name, suggesting she's not well known enough for anyone to care. The man she landed on, a professional photographer says he got some shots of her on an angle never seen before though. A reminder of another fashion show, the Midwinter Collection. The current Hunger Games victor seen out and about with the daughter of a prominent cabinet minister. I stare in shock as the footage shows Clara and I walking about arm in arm, then laughing together on the roller coaster. Even with the Victory Tour and the people asking for autographs, I never really thought of myself as being like the movie stars and singers.

I guess I'll have to pay more attention now to how I look and where I go. With this in mind, I make sure I'm neat and tidy the next morning before leaving the Victor's Spire to take a cab back to the train station. The woman who drives gives me a friendly smile despite looking as scrawny and underfed as I am. As I pause to calculate the proper tip, she shyly asks if I'll sign a bit of paper for her daughter. While she fetches out my bag from the boot I scribble my name and hand over the money, closing the door before she notices I gave her half again the fare, and start to lug my bag across the pavement. One of the white-clad Avoxes hurries over and takes it without asking, carrying it to the waiting train. I try to tip him too, but he waves it away with a shake of his head.

This time I'm alone in the passenger carriage, and while away the hours drawing patterns in my breath on the glass windows. Beetee is waiting for me at the station, and takes my bag without asking as I step off. He looks me over, as if checking to see if I'm in one piece then gestures for me to lead the way to the bus stop.

"I saw you on the news last night," he says with a small smile while we wait for the bus. "Looked like you were having fun."

"I did," I tell him, still half-surprised myself.

"Good. That's very good."

He adjusts his glasses, starts to say something else, then shakes his head and picks up my bag again as the bus comes into view.


	7. Chapter 7

My life falls into a regular pattern. I wake early enough to eat breakfast with the family. Usually I make the twenty minute walk with Balia and Malcon down the dirt road into town. Malcy's school is just one block past the main road, and Balia sees him to the door before heading to the nearest bus stop to get to her old school half-way across town. Most people can't afford to catch the bus every day; there are some advantages of being in a victor's family.

I spend the rest of my day either in town buying food or parts, or in the lab working on whatever project jumps to mind. I move on from the toy hovercrafts to solar powered toy cars and a little robot cleaner. A crew of builders arrives to take down part of the fence between my house and Beetee's and we extend out our workshops until they join. His current project is miniaturizing all sorts of gadgets, redesigning them smaller and smaller, and working through any issues in manufacture that come with the downsizing.

Father still works some days, down at the factory. Mother cooks whenever she likes, and she and I go into town every fortnight to buy new books. Some are practical, like the cook-books, or the world atlas showing all the countries before the catastrophes that led to Panem's formation. We spend some time looking up the countries that our families came from. My father's family were originally Chinese settlers to America, well before the country fell. My mother's many greats-grandfather was amongst the handful of refugees that made it out of Korea after the first bombings. It's also interesting to look at the map of North America before it became Panem and see how much has changed.

Where District Three stands now, there's just a tiny town 50 miles south of the big city Las Vegas. The bend in the river is still mostly the same, though, making it easy to spot. Apparently Vegas was once a sprawling metropolis, rivaling the Capitol for delights and population. I've never seen the wasted city myself, but from the stories the bombs and the riots did their work and there's not much left. Of course the whole desert around our northern arc is radioactive, or so we are told. I decide to make one of my new projects a radiation detector—Geiger counter, as they are properly called—to see if this is really true. Not that anyone could live out on the dry, dead earth anyway.

Other books we buy are for reading in the evenings, and are entirely fun. Stories of magical kingdoms and fairy godmothers and little girls who want to marry a rich prince. Mystery books where you have to think like the detective and try and work out the ending. I particularly enjoy these ones. Some books have puzzles in them, where you have to work out patterns or number squares. Malcy is astoundingly good at the picture patterns, and he and Balia spend hours together poring over the brightly colored "Where's Wally" collection, trying to find all the things listed.

In the afternoons, either me or Mother makes the walk back into town to pick up Malcy, and once Balia gets home and finishes her homework, we eat dinner as a family. Two nights a week Ezra and Laney join us, and every now and then Pella comes along too.

Nights are for reading and drawing and singing, and if I can't sleep then I creep down to the workshop and fiddle with my toys. After the third time Beetee comes in to find me dozing on the workbench he installs a fold-out bed in the wall, complete with compact bedside table and lamp. I scowl at him, and tell him it isn't necessary, but he just laughs. It is convenient.

On the last Friday evening of every month I pack my bags and make the five hour train ride to the Capitol. I spend the weekend with Clara and her friends, seeing sights, eating out, visiting the malls for shopping or to see movies and concerts. On my second trip Perry and Gamicus take us for a tour of the University, technically closed on the Sunday, but Perry got hold of an access card somehow. The third trip sees me return with an additional bag full of clothing from an extended shopping jaunt. Clara's not as clothes obsessed as most girls her age, but she says she feels the urge every few months to add to her wardrobe. Odelia comes with us for that spree, and the three of us end up on the news again, sitting in the food court of the mall eating colorful donuts while trying on new head-scarves.

My eighteenth birthday in early March dawns cold and gray and slightly drizzly. Where before presents were little things, like jewellery made from scrap, or a dress or shirt being passed down from an older family member, we can now afford fancy gifts.

My mother gives me a matching necklace and earrings bought on order from District One (through our district shop). Father's present is a new detective series by one of the authors I like. Balia (and Malcy) have done paintings of our family. They're good enough that I can probably guess who is meant to be who.

Beetee presents me with a new laser engraving set and a book of patterns to follow. He saw me trying to engrave by hand a swirly design onto the side of my robot, apparently. Even Cupros joins in, his gift a games board for chess, checkers and backgammon.

Pella, who stubbornly refuses to take any money from me, brings a new sparkly hair tie. She also offered to collect the birthday cake, on special order from the bakery off the town square. Ezra and Laney bring a box of chocolates, which I open right away to share with everyone. They also bring good news. Ezra got a promotion, and Laney is pregnant again. Both have recovered from the flu that swept through a few months back and apparently wasted no time.

We spend the day thoroughly enjoying ourselves, and I'm surprised when a delivery man knocks on the door as we're cleaning up from dinner. Three packages, all with my name on them. The first is from Seeder Dace, District Eleven. A fancy jar of preserved fruits in a mix of expensive spices. Beetee sees it and grins.

"Good old Seeder. She remembers everyone's birthdays. Of course she only sends something if she actually likes you."

The second is from Diya Patel, District Five. A card wishing me happy birthday, and a funny key-ring with a hologram of a cat inside it that seems to move as I turn it in the light. The last is from Clara Redfern. A framed drawing of the Capitol skyline as seen from the top of her roof. Also a packet of extra strong peppermints, my favorite of the candies we tried last time I was in the Capitol. I remind myself to find out her birthday as I share out the mints.

My fourth trip to the Capitol, Clara, Perry and Gamicus drag me out to the clubs for a night on the town. I wonder how Clara, who is quite well known will get in, even with a fake identification card. The man at the door takes it, looks at the name and raises an eyebrow. She grins and hands over a few notes, and he waves us in without any further comment.

The pounding music and flashing lights nearly set off a panic attack. When one of the boys hands me a drink, I take it and down it quickly, hoping that the alcohol will dull my fear. Three more drinks and I feel brave enough to tackle the dance floor, despite the press of bodies. Gamicus stays nearby me at first while Perry and Clara pay attention to no-one but each-other. Eventually my 'escort' gets distracted by a man and woman who keep dancing up close to him, and he wanders off to a comfortable corner, one arm around each of their waists. By the time I look back, Clara and Perry are gone too, and all I can see is a wall of swaying bodies, bumping me, pushing me, crowding me. I try to escape but every time I see a gap through the sea of people it closes before I can reach it.

A hand brushes my hair and I whirl, but whoever it was has already moved on. Another person wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into the middle of a circle of dancers, all writhing and pushing against one-another. I duck away from them and squirm through a tiny gap until I reach one of the walls. Pressing my head against the cool plaster, I bite my lip until I'm sure I'm not going to scream and clench and unclench my hands until I feel my heart-rate go back down.

When I look up, I see another familiar face in one of the curved booths nearby. Lorcan, one of my prep team members waves me over, shaking his head in bemusement.

"Never thought I'd see you in a place like this," he yells over the blaring music as I slide into the booth. He pushes over a drink and I gulp a mouthful, choking slightly at the taste.

"I was with...with..." I trail off, realizing he'll never hear me through the stutter and the noise. I look around and eventually spot Clara and Perry over by the bar. I point at them and Lorcan shakes his head, smiling wryly.

"She's what, fifteen?" he yells back. I shrug and he shrugs back. From how she went about it, I'd guessed she wasn't the only underage person out and about in this club. As if my thoughts summoned her attention, she turns around, scanning the crowd. I wave, and she eventually spots me, taking Perry by the hand as she leads him over.

"Where's Gamicus?" She hollers in my ear, shooting a side-long glance at Lorcan. I point in the general direction he and his 'friends' disappeared and she scowls. "He was-"

The rest of her sentence is drowned out by a particularly loud blare. She turns on Lorcan, who quickly offers a hand. He introduces himself as assistant to the District Three stylist and her scowl disappears. She sits down beside me and nudges me to move around so that there's room for Perry too. Lorcan shuffles as though making room, though he doesn't move much, so I end up leaning slightly against his side as we get comfortable. I don't mind that much. He's someone I can deal with touching me. He offers me another sip of his drink.

There's not much point trying to talk, so we just sit and drink and watch the sea of bodies through the flashing lights. It's almost beautiful in an abstract way. The constant swaying motion in time with the thrumming beat, so loud that it vibrates through your body and back out into the air.

Or maybe it's just me that's swaying. The colors and sounds start to blur a little, especially when I try to sit more upright again. I can't remember how many drinks I've had, or what was in them. My head is resting on someone's shoulder, and there's an arm around me, holding me steady. I check—still Lorcan, who isn't complaining, so I don't try to move again until he shakes me gently.

"Wiress. Wiress? Wakey-wakey. Time to go I think."

Slowly the world comes back into focus. The music is still blaring and my arm is numb and tingly. Across the booth, Perry and Clara are kissing rather enthusiastically. My right side is much warmer than my left. Lorcan!

I try to sit up and nearly panic as the arm around me tightens.

"Easy Wiress," he says loudly into my ear, so close I can feel his face brush my hair. The voice is familiar enough to calm me. I wince as I shake out my dead arm, gasping at the rush of pin-pricks as the blood flow comes back. Clara beside me giggles. She's disentangled herself from Perry and leans over to straighten my hair.

"I guess you're not used to this," she says, batting away Perry's hand as he tries to draw her back towards him. "That's ok, I'd better get home before long anyway. Come on."

I don't remember much of the car ride back to the Spire.

~xXx~

I wake up shivering, with a splitting headache and decide to just stay on top of the bed for the morning until the wave of nausea strikes. I make it to the bathroom, barely, and remember to use one hand to hold back my hair while I vomit.

Never again, I tell myself as I finally manage to stand and wash out my mouth at the sink. Never again. I debate about trying to manage breakfast, and decide on coffee instead. There's a jar of instant stuff by sink, and it only takes me three tries to get the lid off. I sit down at the table, starting to feel nearly human after a few sips, and spot the note.

_Hope you don't feel too wretched when you wake. Made sure you got back safe, if I didn't Dido would have had me flayed alive and stitched into a new dress. Clara said to tell you Beston's Mall food court at midday, if you're well enough to make it._

_-Lorcan_

I glance at the clock; half past ten. No wonder the people of the Capitol sleep in if they spend every night out partying and every morning waking like this. After a long hot shower and a few more glasses of water I feel nearly back to normal. Well enough to meet Clara for Sunday lunch.

It actually makes me feel a little better to see that she is also a bit peaky. She grins and waves lazily as she sits down at the table. "Mom nearly caught me coming in," she says as she flicks through the menu. "She'd have killed me if she saw. Last time she caught me coming back drunk she grounded me for a month. I'll have the pancakes with strawberries and cream," she adds to the waiter. "Of course after the first couple of days I just snuck out, but still..."

"How are you feeling?" she asks as the waiter walks away with our orders.

"Better than I...I...was this...this...morning."

She nods absently, fiddling with her hair, then scowls at the table. "Sorry you got left on your own, by the way. Gamicus was _supposed_ to be looking out for you. I told him you'd never been out before. That Lorcan's a bit of a cutie though. You and he looked pretty cosy."

She grins as I shake my head, though I can feel the heat in my cheeks. I don't know why, it's not like I have anything to hide from someone like Lorcan, who has seen me naked on multiple occasions. Though she's right, he is sort of cute in a fair-colored clean-cut way. Too attractive for someone like me.

Our pancakes arrive and we tuck in, watching the flow of people around us. I've mostly come to terms with crowds, as long as they're not actually touching me. Clara points out who is wearing last season's fashions and what even she thinks looks silly. I'm surprised that someone like her keeps up with seasonal fashion trends and say so. She rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Like I can escape it at school. I know, I just don't care. See, this jacket is not just last season, but the one before that. I still wear it because it's comfortable. And if I'm going to be sick again, I don't want Mom finding out I ruined new clothes."

Back home if someone is sick on their clothes, we just wash it out and deal with it. I'm actually not surprised they would throw something out just for that here.

We finish our lunch, and Clara suggests a new movie that's come out. The story is based on an old book from before Panem, about a boy who gets lost in the jungle and is raised by wild animals. He meets a proper woman who gets him all straightened out and civilized again, and they fall in love with him deciding to leave the jungle behind. It's all right, and sitting in a comfortable seat in a dark room is about all I have the energy for. We find somewhere quiet for dinner then leave, though Clara promises she'll take me out to a better club next time, and will make sure I'm not left alone again.

I'm glad to see our night out didn't make the news, and spend another month letting myself fall back into my life. I send Clara one of my remote control hovertoys, engraved with flames and racing stripes for her sixteenth birthday in April. She calls me back to say thanks, and that it's way better than the three-day-long spa and pampering treatment her Mom bought her. I ask what Perry got her, and she just laughs and says it's not something to be repeated on an open phone line.

True to her word, she drags me out to the clubs again when I see her a week later. The music is a little quieter here, the lights not so bright. I alternate every alcoholic drink with two glasses of water. As well as Perry and Gamicus, there's the familiar faces of Royan and Helia, and a handful of the boys' university friends. I remember Plutarch Heavensbee, who Royan rescues me from being talked half to death by several times. I don't really get a chance to speak to Thannicus or Fulvia much as they are too busy with each other.

To my surprise it is a fun night. Perry, Royan and Gamicus tell bawdy jokes, trying to make us girls blush. Clara tells them right back and manages to at least get Royan to color. There's a game where they get an empty bottle and spin it on the table and whoever it lands on has to do a dare. They make me down an entire drink at once the first time, then I have to stand up on my seat and dance the next. Gamicus gets his shirt off and throws it into the crowd. Clara has to go up to the barman and kiss him. Both Perry and Royan glare at Gamicus for suggesting that one, though Clara doesn't even hesitate. Helia manages to disappear before it lands on her. When it lands on Royan the next spin, Perry jumps in with a wicked smile. "Give Wiress a kiss. Go on."

I freeze. I know here in the Capitol it's different, that a kiss doesn't mean anything. Even more than a kiss doesn't necessarily mean anything, but it still doesn't seem right. A hand brushes my shoulder. Royan, who has the decency to ask, "Only if she doesn't mind."

He's not particularly good looking, but not unattractive either. Large hazel eyes in a round face. Short nose and full lower lip, tufty brown hair bleached white at the tips. When in the Capitol, do as they do, I guess.

I shrug and give him a small smile. He smiles back and leans forward, covering my lips with this. The touch sends a shiver down my spine and when he draws back some of the warmth stays behind. To my surprise he's blushing a little again. Perry and Gamicus glance at each other, laugh and grab the bottle for another spin. When Royan slips his arm around my shoulders I don't complain.

~xXx~

A week after I get back, another flu sweeps through the district. Usually the sickness comes with winter, but this is a summer bug, and the warm weather makes the fever even worse. Mayor Redden calls the house to inform us that there are inoculations available for this particular strain for important persons in the district. He has ten assigned for the Victors Village, and tells us to come to the Justice Building as soon as we can. Since Cupros doesn't have any family left and Beetee is estranged from his parents, they tell us to use the extras. It means even Laney is covered, and hopefully won't lose another child to sickness.

We all plan to head down the next day, but when I go to collect Beetee I find him in the middle of a particularly intricate wiring job. He doesn't even look up when I enter. "I'm busy," he says softly, turning his mouth away from the tiny circuit board. "I'll go down later once I'm done."

I shrug and let him be, taking Malcy's other hand and singing along with Balia as we walk down the road. I try to let the moment soak into my memory as fully as possible, just walking with all my family around me, in preparation for the upcoming weeks.

So engrossed do I become in thoughts of the upcoming reaping and Games that it takes me a couple of days to realize Beetee never got his inoculation.

"I completely forgot," he admits when I ask him over a late night workshop session. He's finished the microchip and has it encased in a button. A tiny music player, though he still wants to go smaller eventually.

"Don't worry about me," he says, cutting across the stammering lecture I was about to give him. "I'll just stay up here until it's run its course. I'll be fine. Really."

Two days later he's in bed, running a dangerously high fever and has a wheezy cough that has almost completely stolen his voice away. We call Raffy Sommerson, who runs the official drugstore and is as close to a trained doctor as our district has, and he prescribes a course of antibiotics to deal with what he thinks is a secondary infection, as well as some other pills for the fever and a syrup to help with the cough.

That night I wander up to his room through the workshop to check on him and find him rambling and thrashing about. I refill the water that he's knocked over and cover him back up with the single sheet he's allowed to sleep with whenever he throws it off. I know if he's this sick now, he probably won't be well enough to attend the Games. And he doesn't have to. It's just _tradition_ for the previous mentor-victor to do the next Games, and it's not like we don't have someone else to cover. Plus, if he did try to mentor he might make our tributes sick, and take away whatever tiny chance they had. Not that my tribute has any chance at all. The Careers always target the tribute from the previous victor's district the next year. She would have to be something special to get away from that. Even the boy isn't safe, especially if he finds himself too close to one of the vicious volunteers.

"Wiress? Are you there? Why can't I see you."

I turn to answer, but realize Beetee is still asleep, locked into another feverish dream. "Where did you go? I thought I saved you. WIRESS!"

I grab his hand and say, "I'm here Beetee. Right here."

He stops muttering when I speak, and settles back down into a raspy doze. I sit with him a little while longer, holding his hand until I'm sure he's definitely out, then head back down to the workshop to keep tinkering.


	8. Chapter 8

Beetee is no better by reaping day, which makes none of us happy. Mother and I drop by his house on the way out to refill his water and give him another dose of the antibiotics, for all the good they seem to do. He musters enough energy to raise a hand in greeting, but his attempt to sit up and say hello turns into another fit of the hacking cough, at the end of which he falls limply back into the cushions.

"I'll call and…and tell you…"

The words fall away like usual, but he flicks his fingers in a shooing motion so I assume he understands, and step back to help Mother with the stack of empty water bottles.

"I'll stop by on the way back with some of that apple puree and toast," she tells him as he takes the white pills that should help bring down the fever.

He pulls a face, at the taste or the thought of trying to keep down food I'm not sure, and murmurs something that might be thanks before another coughing fit takes him. I hate seeing him so weak, the man who saved my life and has played a major role in dragging me back to sanity. I wish more than anything that he could be there beside me during these Games to catch me when my tribute falls. Instead I mutter a goodbye and hurry downstairs where the others are waiting.

Two gleaming black cars are standing by manned by Games drivers to ensure we get to the reaping on time. By the time we reach them they have already loaded my small case of clothes and much larger case of tools and toys and sketchbooks into the boot. Cupros gives an unintelligible grunt of greeting as we pass him loading his own luggage into the second car. Father will ride with him so that we're not all squished in our car. The two of them get along surprisingly well considering I never pictured Cupros being friendly with anyone. My father is the quiet, introspective sort, not that much younger than the surly, lonely old victor, and occasionally spends an evening playing checkers or backgammon with him in the cluttered house full of empty bottles.

Cupros is doubly sour this year because he thought he was finally getting a break in the mentoring, a well deserved break that Beetee and I have both promised he will have next year, and several more after. Hopefully he won't take it out on the tributes.

_No, I won't let him take it out on the tributes._

As we pull away from the house that has become home I realize Balia is trembling next to me. She has two entries in this year's reaping but surely, surely fate wouldn't be that cruel. She and Malcy will never have to take tesserae, but that won't necessarily save them from being drawn. Odds are odds and a low probability isn't the same as zero.

Malcy is squirming a little in the boosted seat on the other side and she instinctively reaches out to him, humming softly to calm him down. I join in the counterpart tune and her shoulders visibly relax. Her hand slips into mine as we pass through our old neighborhood, eerily silent and empty as the buses will have already departed for the square. The drive is a lot quicker in these sleek black cars, a few shortcuts through side-roads too narrow for the buses and no wait in line sees us there well before the 11 o'clock ceremony. We park in the narrow road behind the Justice Building, in one of the yellow-marked reserved spaces, and I feel a bit giddy when I step out, as though I really shouldn't be here in this special area.

Malcy manages to restrain himself to a few sniffles and a kiss on the cheek when Balia leaves for the sign-in desk, and kisses me also when I head off for the stage. The rest of the family will stay near the back here so I can see them one last time before I go, and so that they don't have to fight back through the press of the crowd to the cars when the ceremony is done.

Mayor Redden greets me by name as I slip onto the stage area and clasps my hand for an uncomfortably long time, smiling all the while.

"Terrible shame about Beetee. The poor fellow'll be right soon I'm sure. We'll look after him while you're away, don't you worry about that. You just keep an eye on…"

"Oh you must be WIRress. Oh I'm so excited to meet the reigning victor! Though of course you won't be soon, no no NO! That title will belong to someone new, isn't that exCITing?"

A flash of green and yellow dances across my vision and for a moment I'm back in the Arena, back in the maze where everything was fuzzy green and deadly. As my breath catches, something taps my shoulder lightly, then settles and I hear Cupros' wheezy whisper in my ear.

"Easy girl."

I look down and start to lower the upraised hand, fingers wrapped around an imaginary knife-hilt when it is grabbed and pumped up and down excitedly.

"Ooh you're taller than I thought, so skinny though. But it's a pleasure all the same."

The blur of color refocuses in the form of a short woman with a puff of sunflower-yellow curls twirling out over layers and layers of green frills. A vivid red flower perched on top of the garish yellow hair bobs and sways with her jittery excitement as she peers around.

"It's very drab out here isn't it? How _do_ you manage without a splash of color? Oh and you must be…er…Copperis? Yes a pleasure too. And where is …erm…Bertie? He must be here soon or he will miss all the FUN!"

"Ahem."

Mayor Redden's face contorts as he tries to force off the grimace in favor of a smile.

"I don't believe Beetee will be making it today. He's quite unwell. Wiress, Cupros, this is our new Capitol escort-"

"Gloria Goldacre," the woman interrupts again, squeezing my hand so hard that my fingers begin to tingle. "I'm so excited they let me take a victor's district, I'm new you see. My very first year, oh I can't WAIT!"

I can feel the low panic starting to rise again at her continued clamping grip and try to draw my hand free, but she clamps down harder. My breath catches in my throat and I yank my fingers free, half stumbling back into Cupros who catches me instinctively and re-settles my balance.

Gloria turns back to me and opens her mouth to say something, but Mayor Redden interrupts.

"Ahem, well we should probably take our places."

This grabs Gloria's attention and she flounces of, flower hat and frills bouncing to the center of the stage. Mayor Redden heaves a long-suffering sigh and follows after her to where the crew have finished adjusting the microphone stand.

Cupros articulates a grunt of disgust and shoves forward to his own seat, where he slumps with his face in his hands, shading his eyes from the occasional flashes of bright sun through the thinned smog layer. Suddenly I'm all alone standing off to the side of the stage, looking out over the rows of children filing into their roped pens. I can't see Balia in the thirteens area yet; she's probably still in line. The tiny twelve-year-olds are huddled to the front, quaking with fear at their first reaping.

The shadowy figures get a little bigger as they go back, still undersized compared to the children of so many of the districts. With the Career pack gunning for them more than usual, how will any of them have a chance? I'm half-hoping that the tributes this year are somewhat helpless. It's cruel and cold, and I hate myself a little for it, but realistically we aren't going to have another victor this year and it would be a waste of a strong contender to such a fate.

_Better to let the Careers have their revenge, let them see our weakness and leave us alone again in future Games. A shame for this year's tributes, but something has to give._

I don't much care for the reappearance of the callous voice inside me that got me through my Games, but I can't deny it will be helpful to get through the next few weeks. I shudder and wander to my seat, where I discover the reflected glare from the nearby building shutters is incredibly unpleasant and quickly copy Cupros's pose.

"Terrible, ain't it?" he mutters, throwing a glare towards our new Escort, who has started in about the ugly chimney stacks visible on the factories ruining the uninteresting skyline. I bury my face further into my hands and lose myself in imaginings of the inner workings of my improved miniature solar car until I hear the clock chime.

The roped areas have swelled full of shifting, dark-haired figures, with thousands more cramming the edges of the square to form a sea of glistening black hair and gray shirts that spills into the side-streets. The whistle of conversation dies down as Redden steps up to the stand and begins his annual spiel. On the far side of Cupros I can hear Gloria's impatient shifting and excited breaths as she waits on her introduction. The mumbling winds down with an introduction of the previous victors. Cupros as usual ignores the scattered applause which continues over to the mention of the absent Beetee. My announcement is greeted with a more enthusiastic cheer; the months of food from my victory and the extra jobs from the new factories has meant a good year for most.

When Gloria is given her cue she bounds to the microphone, nearly stumbling in her enthusiasm.

"Yes, hello hell-LO District Three, I am so excited to be your new Escort. I'm sure we will have a wonderful time together cheering on our tributes and soon to be victors! So let's get down to it and meet our wonderful, brilliant tributes for the Forty-ninth Annual Hunger Games! Ladies first of course!"

She delivers the words so fast that I don't have time to worry about Balia before she has the name out of the bowl. My breath catches for a second while Gloria clears her throat and unfolds the slip to reveal the girl who will pay with her life for my victory.

"Allasan Pinto."

We all look out over the rows of heads where the stillness is broken near the middle of the ranks. The crowd parts to let Allasan through and I breathe a half-sigh of relief when I see her trembling, tear-stained face. Fifteen, smaller than even our undersized average, unattractive and clearly terrified. She would never have made it anyway.

"Lovely, lovely, yes. Come up here dear. Congratulations! And now for the gentlemen."

Gloria claps her hands twice then bounces over to the other bowl.

"And our other tribute will be…Elmett Tam. Wonderful, up you come."

She bounces on her heels, grin plastered to her face while Elmett makes his way from the back of the square. Cupros grunts as the boy climbs the steps and stands center stage for the reading of the treaty. Elmett looks to be average in every way: Around my height and age, flat black hair, unassuming features, blank expression. Thin wire glasses held together with electrical tape rest on a short, flat nose; long-fingered hands clench and unclench, then wipe the sweat on the back of his shirt.

He might have had a chance in another year. Maybe still does have a chance to escape the bloodbath.

"..one boy and one girl…"

I wonder if they are thinking what I was thinking this time last year? One last look at the district they will probably never see again. Trying to spot their friends and family in the crowd. Plotting their strategy already perhaps.

Once the treaty ends the pair shake hands and are hurried off into the Justice Building to say their final farewells to their loved ones. The crowd below begins the slow process of dispersing back to their homes, the wash of sudden chatter filling the air. Mayor Redden is piling up his cue cards and speaking to an assistant until his son runs up from the front roped area to hug him.

All the while we're just sitting here doing nothing. I turn to Cupros, who gives another grunt and hauls himself to his feet.

"I suppose you want to see your folks now before we go. Better get out quick before canary-curls corners you again."

I snuff a laugh at his nickname and take his advice, slipping down the steps away from the approaching Gloria back to where the cars are parked. Everyone but Balia is there already, including Ezra and Laney. The farewells are so much easier to say now that we know I'll return in one piece, at least physically, and once my sister fights her way through the crowd to join us it feels like just another Sunday with the family. Until Cupros joins us, looking even more sour from half an hour of being talked at by Gloria and reminds us we should probably be on our way. One last round of hugs and kisses and a quick shift of luggage and Cupros and I are off to the train station, to begin our unwanted journey escorting two children to their deaths.

Cupros dodges the small pack of reporters and heads straight for the bar carriage while the attendants haul our luggage on-board. I pretend not to hear the handful of shouted questions and slip on-board after him, puttering about my room for a bit, until I see the car carrying our tributes pull up.

Allasan is still trembling as she makes her way aboard, Elmett is still ambivalent blandness and outwardly calm. Gloria is bouncing between them, reveling in the flash of the cameras and blowing kisses that will never be seen on screens showing far more interesting districts.

Much as I'd like to hole up in my room and play with my toys until we reach the Capitol I have a duty to this girl whose death will be added to the blood on my hands. Cupros is nowhere to be seen as I slip into the dining car. Two attendants are at work putting the final touches to a pile of fruits that will serve as a table centerpiece. From their silent nods I assume they are Avoxes and wave at them to continue on while I take a seat. Already the gray blocky strip of buildings has faded away amidst the surrounding wastelands, our scenery for the next hour or so.

The carriage door clatters open and Gloria marches in, still talking nineteen to the dozen.

"Oh and I do hope…ah yes, good the food is ready. Oh, Wiress, you're here already. Good good. I've told the children to change and come meet us for lunch, but where is Cappus? He _must_ be here soon. Oh he must have lost track of time, I'll go fetch him. Don't you move a muscle dear! I'll do it and be right back! A team, that's what we need to be. And…"

Still nattering, she bustles out the other door and I restrain the impulse to follow and see how annoyed Cupros is when she corners him. I go back to staring out the window until the rattle of the door, much softer this time, catches my ears. Allasan looks terrified as she peeks around the frame, her ill-fitting gray-green dress replaced with a long, sweeping affair of pink and white silk.

While I know she is headed to her death, I can at least fulfil this part of my mentoring duties and force a smile.

"Come in."

She smiles shyly back and scurries to the empty seat to my right. As she sweeps out the skirts to sit she spots the piles of food sitting out ready and stops, mouth open.

"Is…is it all for us?"

I nod and she sits with a soft thump, stomach rumbling audibly at the smell. Soft footsteps precede Elmett's entrance, and for the first time I see a flicker of emotion cross his face as he looks around at the opulent spread. Disgust, that such splendor can't be shared with those who need it far more than two children being sent to their deaths.

He too has changed from his graying shirt and too-loose trousers into a smart dark suit and silver tie. Bland and ordinary, but the cut suits him well. Smart boy, doesn't want to obviously stand out, but knows how to get subtly noticed. Unlucky enough to be picked in completely the wrong year. Unlucky to be picked at all, I guess. He sits silently on Allasan's other side as the nasal chirping reaches our ears from the other corridor.

"…it's really all a matter of presentation, you see. I've been watching what the Escorts from Districts like One and Four do, and it's mostly a matter of putting the extra effort in and…oh, you're all here, lovely. Well, don't stint yourselves my dears, you could both do to put on some weight. As I was saying, presentation, presentation! The sponsors won't back them if they don't look like they'll last you know."

She flashes her unnaturally white smile around the table, seemingly not bothered by our silent response. The unspoken anger at a woman who I know doesn't know any better, and probably honestly thinks she's doing the best she can for these poor children. No-one moves for a few seconds, so I take the lead and reach out for one of the plates, loading it with salad and stew from a steaming silver dish. Hesitantly the pair follow my lead, and for the next hour we pile down food while Gloria continues to yammer.

Allasan eats like the food will vanish off her plate if she looks away for a second, and I try to be a little gladdened that she'll get a few decent meals before she dies. It doesn't help. I tune out Gloria and alternate between staring at my food, swirling patterns of sauce and smeared vegetables on the plate and staring out the windows where the dry wasteland is slowly replaced by forests, then quarries as we pass through the outer reaches of District Two.

They'll already be in the Capitol, disembarking to the raucous cheers and adulation that follows their volunteers, whoever they are. The way their system seems to work suggests a pre-selection of sorts, and if the selectors are previous victors then I suspect the tributes will be a little less honorable this year. Had Halifax killed Jasper when he had the chance last year, instead of letting him sleep and waiting for a fair fight he would almost definitely have won. I doubt I could have taken him, and I'm fairly sure he would have handled Sparrow, regardless of projectiles. It was his honor that got him killed in the end. That and being distracted by me at a critical moment.

So we'll have both Districts One and Two gunning for our tributes. And Four of course because of what I did to Francis and Damian. Wonderful.

Once the table is exhausted and the plates are removed Gloria claps her hands loudly and sends the children back to their rooms to 'prepare themselves for the most wondrous _disembarkerment_ in a just a few short hours.'

Elmett rolls his eyes, looking momentarily like a taller, older version of my deceased district partner Stuvek that my breath catches for a second. They both go, probably as much to escape our Escort as to actually prepare, leaving the Capitolian to focus her conversation in on us.

"..and of course we'll _have_ to get some new suits made up. That style went out of fashion _years_ ago, you won't be winning any sponsors with that, no, no, no. Oh, and if we could get them to do _your_ hair like you had it during the Victory ceremony, yes with the curls and the flowers. Oh it really did make such a difference to your public appeal. Not that you needed it right after winning the Games. But you will now, I mean that was last year and you want people to remember you in your moment of glory."

I nearly ask whether I should find myself some torn clothing and a bloody knife to help remind them too, and go back to drawing smeary brown stew spirals until the impulse passes. Finally Cupros shifts to his feet, grunts something that might contain the word 'shower' and leaves me to her tender mercies. Thankfully she either gets the hint or takes his leaving as a reminder of her own preparation needs.

"Oh yes, I suppose I'd better go touch up. Now don't you go neglecting yourself either now that you don't have your prep team. Oh no, we couldn't have that. Just remember if you need help, come and ask, I'll be happy to help anytime!"

She waggles her fingers in a pretentious wave that seems popular in the Capitol as she makes her exit and I let out a sigh of relief at the sudden silence. I could go back to my room and read a book or draw, but getting out of the chair with all this food sitting in my stomach feels like too much effort. Instead I go back to watching the scattered trees and rocky fields flashing by, listening to the gentle humming whirr of the train, the soft clatter of the Avox servers clearing up our remains. The smell of the strawberry icing on the buns, the taste still fresh in my mouth lingers even after they are gone.

The gray and green flickers by as my mind wanders, and it's not until I see the flash of sunset of the distant high plateau that I realize we're nearly there. Gloria returns to marshal the children and make sure they're presentable, because "Presentation is everything! And they won't want to miss seeing the Capitol, it might be their only chance, you know."

Allasan apparently doesn't hear this, but Elmett shoots our new escort a withering glare, and she contents herself with pointing out the few buildings you can pick at this distance until we hit the slope. The sudden black of the tunnel is momentarily disorienting until the lights flicker back on, and Gloria hustles both tributes to the windows in preparation for their grand entrance to the crowd.

"Other window," snaps Cupros as he enters, the stink of liquor more pronounced than before.

"Less you want to show them off to the slummers. The poor and filthy, who probably still earn more in a week than their families do in a month combined."

Royan and Terry's people. The waiters and drivers and servers who struggle and rely on the generosity of others to make a decent living. Gloria purses her lips, but doesn't comment as she shifts the tributes by their elbows to the other side of the carriage. Seconds later we burst out into the light, where a small crowd of on-lookers gives something resembling a cheer.

I keep watching out the other side, where the Capitol's poor live in their 'slums', two and three storey houses holding maybe half-a-dozen tenants. Where families have siblings forced to share a room and can only afford to attend fancy parties or large events a few times a year, usually in out-of-date fashions.

As the train rolls to a halt, Gloria bustles them off to the door for their grand 'disembarkerment', leaving myself and Cupros to trail behind.

"I want the other one back," Cupros grunts as we wait for our turn to exit. "At least he shut up when he was eating."

Gloria's misguided rambling is frustrating, but at least she's not cruel. I shrug and he pulls a face and downs the last of his drink.

"I suppose it's illegal to gag her," he mutters as he shoves the empty glass at an Avox and heaves a sigh, stepping out into the bright light of the Capitol. I decide it's not worth responding where a reporter might hear and follow him.


	9. Chapter 9

The apartment in the Remake Center is the same as last year, though you wouldn't know it from the interior. Blue walls have been repainted bright green, the white lacy curtains replaced with a multi-colored flower design and the artwork shows still life images of birds and bees and flowers. Even the tablecloth has a spiraling maze pattern.

"Well isn't this just lovely!"Gloria exclaims, throwing the flowery curtains wide to show the glitter of the city at sunset. "And I suppose you're getting a little peckish for some tea hmm? I know I am."

The flash of disgust traces its way across Elmett's face again; Allasan shoots her a confused look.

"But we just ate a little while ago?"

"Well you need to keep your strength up dear," Gloria trills, clapping her hands to summon the servers, who begin stacking the table. "And once we've finished the Reaping replays will be on and we can have a look at your competition. Isn't that exciting?"

She continues in this vain all meal, chivvying both tributes to "Eat up!" and "Don't stint yourselves dears!" apparently oblivious to their discomfort at consuming days of food in a few short hours.

I try to explain this to her at one point, but she doesn't follow my half-dropped sentences, and more than ever I'm missing Beetee, as Cupros doesn't seem to have even been following the conversation. Or he doesn't care. Finally, after forcing down the tangy gelato dessert we migrate to the lounge area for a better view of the wall-sized television screen. I drop into one of the couches and Allasan quickly slides in beside me with a nervous smile. Elmett settles on her other side, avoiding Gloria, who is perched on the edge of her own couch, already quivering with excitement. Cupros slouches into the armchair, hip-flask in hand, wearing his customary scowl.

Apparently I'm the safe one, the one they trust. I hope they're not too disappointed when I don't come through for them.

Narcissus Elkheart, the Games announcer, and Caesar Flickerman are jointly hosting the recap this year, each giving their own spin on the tributes for the Forty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games. As always they lead off with District One, showing the line of quivering older children readying themselves for the race to the stage as the names are drawn. "Mighty Jammison" and "Glimmer Isala" both step forward for replacements and when they pan across the front of the girls' pen I see a familiar face and shudder.

Jasper's sister, who spent the entire victory tour ceremony in One last year glaring at me looks keen and eager to shed some blood. When their Escort raises his hands she leads the charge forward and appears to be winning until the last few steps, where an even taller girl outpaces her to reach Glimmer's shoulder first. A stocky boy with an artistic fall of auburn curls joins her as the male tribute, both of them waving and pumping their fists in this minor victory while the girl whose brother I killed glares from the sidelines.

District Two, of course, doesn't lower itself to a madcap race to the stage. Their volunteers are chosen well in advance and leap to the stage in style. The inaptly named Flora Pendry, who looks as much like a delicate flower as I do a trained Career, glowers at the cameras and gives a throat-slitting gesture with a slow smile. The boy—man, really—Brutus Mannox appears to fit his name perfectly. A touch shorter than Halifax was, he's no less broad in the shoulders, and unlike his predecessor, has a glint of pure malice in his eyes.

Our reaping gets more speculation than usual, though they quickly write of Allasan's chances at following up my victory. Caesar spots the same quiet confidence that I did in Elmett and rates him as a 'dark horse' contender.

District Four has lost some of its party atmosphere this year. The male tribute is replaced by a lean and confident eighteen-year-old, but there is no female volunteer, leaving sixteen-year-old Halga Reyes looking shocked.

Nothing outstanding from Districts Five or Six, a sweet-faced thirteen-year-old boy from Seven that reminds me hauntingly of Sparrow, though he doesn't have the same aura of dangerous charisma. Their girl is stocky and eighteen, but a close-up shows her holding back tears. Eight's girl has a resigned smile, Ten's boy is taller than the man from Two, and nearly as muscular. Both tributes from Eleven are seventeen, dark-skinned and in shock. Both from Twelve look underfed and terrified.

Caesar and Narcissus sign out and the screen flickers off from the press of Cupros' foot. Gloria opens her mouth to begin a presumably detailed litany about her thoughts on the competition, but Cupros cuts her off.

"Looks like it's the regular lot to worry about. One and Two and that boy from Four. They might take the girl along, might not."

"The boy from Ten," Elmett adds, speaking for the first time, his voice soft and pleasant.

"Ooh yes, he looked tough, didn't he? " Gloria chimes in. "And I thought-"

"I think it's time for bed," Cupros cuts her off again. "We can talk it over in the morning, before you head off to your stylists."

He slouches out of the lounge towards his room, leaving me with two scared tributes and an overzealous Escort.

"What will our stylists do to us?" Allasan asks as soon as we hear the door snick shut.

"Well, they'll-"

"Oh you're just going to LOVE it!" Gloria chirps, her face lit up at the thought. "Don't you worry dear, they'll give you a full make-over and you'll be so pretty that your family and friends will barely recognize you! And they'll do your hair and your nails, and get rid of all that horrid body hair and grime from your skin-"

"How?" Elmett asks, cutting off her litany.

"How what dear?"

"Baths," I tell him, trying to draw the conversation away from Gloria's ramblings.

"Wax to remove….remove…..the…."

"Hair," he finishes for me with a wince.

"Does it hurt?" Allasan whispers with a slight shudder.

"Well, you know what they say dearie, no pain, no gain right?"

"A bit," I tell her honestly. "But it doesn't ….last for….for…"

"Oh no, it's all over in a flash! And after a few more scrubs in the tub you'll be fit as a bee!"

"But….won't I need to be naked for a bath?" Now Allasan looks horrified and even Elmett's bland demeanour flickers uncertainly.

"Well of course," Gloria says in the matter-of-fact manner of those who grew up with such practices. To her the thought of standing naked in a room full of strangers scrubbing and plucking your body is an exciting experience that proves your position of wealth and prominence.

"It's not like…it's…" I curl my fingers together to stop myself slapping the couch. This would be so much easier if I could just _talk_!

"It's like…dolls…dressing…"

Neither of them look any happier, and Gloria looks ready to jump in again with her own make-over stories so I give up and try a different tact. Yawning widely, I stretch and stand. "Bed-time."

Elmett gets the hint and leaps to his feet, heading swiftly to his room, Allasan trailing nervously behind him. I get to my door before Gloria realizes we're leaving her, quickly shut and lock it, and fall into the soft, spongy bed, letting my troubles drift away until tomorrow.

~xXx~

By the time I rise for breakfast, both tributes have already left to meet their stylists, or at least their prep teams for their initial clean-ups. I try to apologize to Cupros for not being there in the morning, which he accepts with a grunt and a wave to join the breakfast table, even going as far to offer me his seat. It's not until I take it that I realize I was the excuse for him to leave the animated conversation between Gloria and Lucia, one of our stylists. She generally only works on the male tributes, so I assume the teal-haired man with rows of piercings along his eye-brow ridges and cheekbones is taking over Dido's role for this year.

" Wiress, there you are dear. I thought you looked a little under the weather yesterday so I let you sleep in." She beams as though she did me a personal favour. I'd have rather her get me up, and make a mental note to set my own alarm in future.

"You know Lucia of course, she'll be styling Elmett. And this is Marco Untelle, who will be dressing up dear little Allasan. I'm sure you want to have a brief chat about the angle you'll be working for her, and then maybe you'd like to join me to go meet with some sponsors?"

I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing but this sounds reasonable, and Marco isn't insisting on talking about the newest hat styles, so I move to join him. Up close he looks younger than I expected, maybe late-twenties, though it can be hard to tell with all the surgery that these people have done.

"Hi," he says softly, and I automatically relax a little when I recognize the toned down accent that marks the 'poorer' residents of the Capitol. "I doubt you've seen me before. I was on the prep team for Five for a few years, then took a break to promote my line. Last year I got stuck with Six, but got a chance to switch. I figured you'd be getting some extra coverage, reigning victor and all, regardless of the tributes."

He smiles, but it looks a bit tight around the eyes. Possibly he regrets taking the switch now that he's seen what he has to work with. Even Dido, more understanding than most Capitolites I've met, had plenty of complaints about my looks and build. Allasan doesn't even have my height or pretty hair.

"I was going to try a different angle this year. Sort of based on Lucia's efforts from last year only more refined."

Lucia's efforts from last year made my district partner look ridiculous. He must see my wince because he smiles and reaches out to pat my hand reassuringly. I make a deliberate effort not to pull my fingers away.

"Nothing that bad, no fear. The robot idea is a good one though, and with a few modifications will work well. I have no doubt."

He flashes an unnaturally white smile and pats my hand once more before sitting back. I don't bother trying to question him further. Allasan has no hope no matter what she's wearing, and I should probably give the charming Marco a chance to prove himself.

Despite Gloria's previous eagerness to show me around the sponsoring procedures, she seems well distracted talking to Lucia, and when the pair vanish to look at shoes I decide it's a good time to dig out one of my detective novels.

Cupros appears to have vanished as well, probably to whatever bar he favors here. I hope Gloria knows the local drinking places as well as Carmenius did if she needs to find him. She doesn't return until after lunch, and spends the next half-hour babbling about designer footwear. Finally I get a few words in and she slaps her forehead dramatically and practically drags me out to a waiting car to drive across to the Training Center. One of the long, low wings on the ground floor the building turns out to be the Sponsorship Hall, where each district has a booth for potential sponsors to meet with mentors, escorts or aides.

In between the small crowds at the Two and Four booths, ours looks lonely and neglected. There's a young man at the desk staring vacantly at the computer screen until he sees our approach.

"Ms Goldacre. Mr Armand Wallace left his card, said he'd put three thousand towards the boy if he reached day five. Two phone calls asking about the boy as well, but chose not to leave numbers. Oh and I've had seventeen calls and twenty-five walk-ups who wanted to meet Ms Ling, get her autograph, photos, interviews. The usual."

Oh joy. Though I'd take photos and autographs over reporters any day.

"And how many actual sponsorship deals?" Gloria asks, drumming her long, metallic nails on the counter.

The man frowns. "As I said Ms Goldacre, Mr Wallace left his card."

"Oh."

She seems to deflate a little bit as she looks around at the long queues on either side of our booth.

"But Cupros was here all morning, yes? He left early."

I try not to laugh too much when the man shakes his head.

"No, Mr Glint never visits the hall. Mr Chan does on occasion, when he is not too preoccupied with other…ah…engagements. And of course this is Ms Ling's first year."

"Well where is he then?" Gloria asks, her painfully cheerful manner falling away.

"Drinking," I tell her. "Probably."

When she looks at me I shrug and add, "Not sure..."

Rat-a-tat-tat. More fingernails drumming on the table as she frowns, then straightens her back, adjusts her ruffles—orange today—and clears her throat.

"Very well. I'll arrange for some aides to go find him. Perhaps some of the more experienced ones will know where to look. You dear should stay here. _You_ may not like talking to people, but a sponsor is a sponsor and I will _not_ have no sponsors in my first year."

She turns to go, then leans back, slapping her forehead again.

"Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you, there's a meeting for all mentors with the head Gamemaker at four in the meeting room back at the Remake Center. I'll arrange a car of course. Don't be late."

With another finger-waggling wave she flounces off, leaving me at the mercy of the Capitol public. It doesn't take them long to find me. After two long hours of shaking hands, signing pictures and programs and forcing smiles for photos and we gain exactly three minor sponsors. All for Elmett, which I guess is a good thing as he's got a chance of making it out of the bloodbath alive.

As I'm starting the process of trying to extract myself to get to the meeting I spot a familiar face in the crowd and heave a heavy sigh. Plutarch Heavensbee waves jovially as he cuts through the press of people to my side, occasionally stopping to nod at someone or briefly shake their hand.

"Wiress, good to see you! Looks like you're keeping busy."

"You could say...that," I reply, hoping he's not going to insist on a long talk. I'm pushing it for time already.

"Yes, yes. Well. Beetee didn't end up making it? No I heard the poor fellow was ill. Terrible, terrible. For us as well as him. See my father's been having some trouble with a prototype engine for…well…I suppose I shouldn't discuss it in public. I was hoping he would be able to pop along and have a look at it."

He continues to smile pointedly at me, and it doesn't take me long to get the hint.

"I….I have a meeting…mentor meeting now…"

"Yes of course, I wouldn't dream of preventing you from fulfilling your duties."

He leans forward to pat my shoulder, oblivious to my unconscious flinch.

"And after…there's the parade…and strategy…tonight."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you're very busy tonight. Tomorrow then? Say eleven at our Wisteria Drive workshop?"

Looks like it's time to start paying back my debt to the Heavensbees. I think I remember Beetee pointing out the workshop during my Victory Tour; it's only five blocks from here.

"Eleven tomorrow. I'll….I'll be….there."

"Good, good. And did I tell you—oh, sorry you should go. Until tomorrow then."

I take the opportunity to make my escape before anyone else can catch me, and with the help of one of the red-and-gold clad aides, find the waiting car. It takes less time to drive back as the central road-way has been blocked off in preparation for the parade, so that the only cars driving it belong to Peacekeepers or chauffeurs on official Games business.

As soon as I'm shown to the meeting room, I realize I shouldn't have worried about being late. It's just on four when I arrive to find three other people already there. Seeder smiles from the corner and waves me over to join her and Tolby, this year's mentors for District Eleven. On the other side a sharp-faced man glowers at us all before returning to his drink.

"Wiress, good to see you again. I heard Beetee is unwell. Pass on my well-wishes when you speak to him next."

"I… I will," I tell her, feeling myself relax. Tolby hands me a drink of something pale pink, and I sip it, grimacing slightly at the sickly sweet alcoholic taste.

The scowling man smirks, downs his own glass, and pours himself another.

"You remember Tolby? And that is Vikus Otello from District Two. I believe he's mentoring their boy. I'll introduce you to the others you don't know as they arrive if you like."

"That would be…"

I trail off as the door bangs open again to admit two more people, then another two, then a one as the mentors slowly trickle in. Seeder and Tolby helpfully name the ones I don't know and some come over to say hello to the newest member of their group.

The young man from District Six, Dominic Mender, seems a little odd until Tolby mutters to me that he's a morphling addict, and usually high on his drug of choice. Laurella Emmet, a sharp-faced blonde from One who is starting to lose her looks with age eyes us disdainfully and takes a seat on the far side of the table. Her male counterpart Glory Winchester, who I remember from a Games when I was younger is a little friendlier, and stops over to shake my hand, though he eventually joins Laurella and Vikus. Once a Career, always a Career I guess.

I recognize old Hans and Olivia from Seven, and Diya from Five from my Victory Tour, and Diya happily joins our group in the corner. I also recognize Pelline Smith from our visit to Ten, though I didn't speak to her then. Robin Miller from Nine, and his quiet, sly-faced counterpart Whisper Stalk, whose Games I remember vividly from three years ago.

Boyd and Wilf from Eight, the only victors their district has ever had. The sour-faced woman from Twelve, Marcie O'Malley, who doesn't look at or speak to anyone as she hobbles to the closest seat to the door, resting her walking cane on the table beside her. Morstan Wake from Four with their most recent victor, Denissa beside him. She doesn't look at all happy to be here and I remember what Mags said about her house-fire and learning a lesson about refusing important people.

Cupros staggers in around half-past four, stinking of spirits. He wanders over to us and Tolby kicks out a chair for him which he falls into with a grunt.

"Did…did Gloria find…?"

"Hmmm? No?"

He crosses his arms on the table and rests his head down on them, straggly gray hair falling in a greasy curtain around his face. We let him be.

Ten minutes later the last two mentors and arrive with the Head Gamemaker Pontius Vellum, who quickly calls the room to order.

"Welcome mentors, good to see you all here. Nothing too much to go over for the Forty-Ninth Games. We have two new ladies joining us this year for the first time, Ms Flow, Ms Ling. I have no doubt you will quickly get the hang of things. If you are uncertain, please speak to your district fellow, Escort, or feel free to contact Tyran Alvarsi, the head mentor aide this year.

"I would ask that you all take some time to revise yourself with the _Mentor Protocols and Responsibilities_ ; I can inform you now there have been no changes again this year.

"Interviews will begin at eleven tomorrow morning in the lower atrium meeting room with District One as usual. Your Escorts are aware of the schedule and will arrange the timing around any sponsorship meetings. I will remind you again that _all_ mentors are required to attend these interviews, and should be prompt and presentable."

His eyes flicker around the table at this, with pointed looks at Cupros, head still down on the table, Tolby with his stained and crinkled shirt, and the pair from Eight who both raise half-empty glasses in reply. Pontius sniffs distastefully and continues.

"Unless anyone has business to raise I believe that will be all, and I'll let you get back to your tributes for the parade. Thank you and happy Hunger Games."

He rises and sweeps out, purple robe trailing behind while the rest of us sit a silence broken by Boyd from Eight, who finishes the glass in his hand and looks around at the other empty pitchers.

"Well M'out of booze. M'Gonna go get more."

He lurches out of his seat and gives us a mockery of the Capitol wave before stumbling out the door. Wilf shakes his head at his younger partner's actions and gets up to follow. Slowly the rest of the room follows suit.

Cupros gently catches my arm just outside the door and pulls me aside. I try not to recoil at the stench of liquor on his breath.

"Sorry 'bout this. Can't seem t'help it. It were shupposed t'be m'year off." He belches, frowns, and continues.

"You'll see'm at the charry-ets girl? I'm gonna go lie down in the Train...Trainin' Centre. I'll see you at dinner."

He belches again and we both grimace at the rancid smell. "Maybe," he adds and staggers off, waving at a nearby attendant for assistance.

"Charming," says a voice at my elbow and I turn to find Diya Patel watching Cupros' exit with distaste. The uptight older man at her side, who Tolby introduced as Nio Krauss snorts and mutters "Pathetic."

I'd guess him to be fairly similar in age to Cupros, though Nio seems to have kept in better repair.

"Well, I suppose we should get on downstairs," he adds, waving generally to the lifts with a hand that is missing two fingers. It reminds me again how lucky I was to come out of the Arena mostly whole. I'd take my speech problems over missing digits any day.

The first tributes have started to arrive downstairs as we enter, their stylists hovering around to add final touches or standing back to admire their handiwork. The stocky boy from One is wreathed in luxurious furs that complement his thick auburn curls. The pair from Seven sweep past us as we exit the lift, rustling in their customary tree outfits. The girl from Eleven looks lost in a spiraling green affair with various brightly colored fruits dangling at odd angles.

Diya moans when she sees her girl wearing a baggy silver jumpsuit with overlarge gloves and a faceless helmet that keeps slipping down over her eyes. I'm about to console her when I spot Allasan cowering behind our chariot, struggling to keep her head up under the weight of the metal cone perched precariously over her dull black hair. From a distance she looks more like a faulty chimney than a robot, coated from head to foot in dark silvery metallic hues. Her hands and face seem to have been painted then smeared with thin black oil and for some unknown reason she has a row of metal spikes down her back.

Diya and I share a look of miserable resign as we separate to go to our tributes. When I reach her I can hear Allasan sniffling, while Marco beams, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort.

"As I said earlier, with a few tweaks to the design…"

He trails off at my glare and I step between him and Allasan and take some of the weight of the headpiece in my hands. Through her tears she flashes me a shy smile.

"It's too…too…heavy," I tell him, and his smug look drops some more. "Next time show me…designs. I'll…"

I want to say fix them, but I don't want to annoy him too much. "I'll help … engineering."

He still stiffens a little at the insult, then snorts as he spots something over my shoulder. Hoping against hope I turn and am not entirely surprised to see Lucia and Elmett approaching.

"What is _that_ supposed to be?" Marco mutters condescendingly, taking in the costumed boy approaching us. Strangely, I find myself disagreeing with his assessment.

Had it been an undersized boy like Stuvek wearing the odd array of mechanical chains and cog-wheels it would have looked a mess, but by some stroke of fate the strange rig seems to fit Elmett perfectly. The bronzed tinting on his skin and underclothes adds nicely to the effect to make him appear like he is made of clock-work. The only thing that throws it off is the clock-hand headpiece blocking most of his face.

"Doesn't he look marvelous?" gushes Lucia as they join us, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Yeah," I tell her, and she eyes me suspiciously, trying to detect if I'm being sarcastic.

"Really," I add with a smile and she relaxes. Elmett gives me a look of disbelief, and I wait until Lucia starts critiquing Allasan's outfit before muttering to him, "Lose the…hat. The rest is…is…"

He nods his understanding and winces with me as he watches Allasan's head drooping. As they are loaded onto the chariot I look around the room again, which has filled out in the last few minutes. The pair from Four are less elegantly dressed than last year. The boy is draped in a sea-weed cloak while the girl has on some translucent blobby hat that trails opalescent tendrils down her body to form a dress of sorts. On the other side the bulky boy from Two is mostly naked and painted like marble, bearing a stone shield and spear like an old statue. The girl's short hair is spiked up to match the rest of her outfit: brown leather and inch-long metal spikes all over. I'm not sure what she's supposed to be and judging by the loud conversation, neither are the rest of them.

Suddenly the anthem is blaring through the speakers and the doors open to release the first chariot, its fur- and jewel-bedecked occupants already waving and smiling. A clatter of footsteps behind me as District Two roll out the door announces Gloria's hurried arrival, and she gasps sharply, one hand holding on her skewed flower hairpiece as she catches her breath.

"Am I too late? Oh, look there they go! Smile children! Don't forget to be happy!"

I doubt they can hear her over the roar of the crowd and she gasps out her apology between excited observations of the other tributes while we watch them go.

"Oh, I'm sorry I'm so late. I was looking for Curros and none of the attendants could find him anywhere. Oh, look at that dress! And of course I'd forgotten to tell him—what on earth is she wearing? Anyway I'd forgotten to tell him about the mentor meeting, so I absolutely had to—oh the poor boy, that looks awful—and of course he was nowhere to be found. And then Tyran tells me—trees again? Oh but look at that lovely tartan. She looks magnificent!"

"He was…at…" I start and she cuts me off again.

"Yes, as I was saying Tyran told me he was at the meeting so then I went there to try and find him and make sure you both made it down here but you'd already gone and someone said they saw him leaving again so I…oh, they've done him up nicely. Big strong lad, I thought he looked good at the reaping."

District Ten's chariot rolls past, the tall, well-muscled boy wearing a tight leather vest and pants that show off his assets. His tufty brown hair sticks out under the broad-brimmed hat and he sports an easy smile as they exit the stables.

When the last chariot is out the door, its huddled occupants in their baggy miners clothes receiving Gloria's final criticisms an attendant calls out, "Cars at the door for the Training Centre. Please make your way to the cars."

We leave with the crowd, and I force myself to relax as I'm jostled at the elbows by excited stylists, curling my fingers in my dress until the panic passes. When I do look around, I see I'm not the only victor looking uncomfortable in the press of people.

Denissa from Four jumps and glares when Marco brushes past her. I try to give her an apologetic smile, but jump myself as the violet-haired stylist from Two bumps me in turn. Our eyes meet for an instant in shared understanding until their Escort drags her aside.

Gloria tries to do the same to me, and I pull my arm out of reach of her hand and follow Marco's bright hair towards our waiting car.

I really can't blame Cupros for abandoning me; I know he likes crowds and obnoxious chattering people even less than I do. As I settle back into the car, letting Lucia and Marco's smug conversation wash over me I find myself wishing again that Beetee were here.


	10. Chapter 10

Elmett didn't quite manage to lose the ridiculous headpiece on the way out the door, but he did succeed in pushing it back so that his face was showing. This improves the look even more, and glancing around the other tributes, I'd rate him in the best five outfits. With my victory last year he'll have the extra attention in the interviews, especially since Allasan has shown nothing to spark the Capitol's interest. Maybe, just maybe this quiet young man has a real chance.

As soon as they roll to a stop I help Allasan remove the heavy metal head-piece. She whimpers and rubs her aching neck and I push away the impulse to dump it on Marco's head to see how he likes it. In future I will ask to look over his designs before he puts them on my tributes as he clearly has no idea what is an appropriate weight for a small, physically weak girl.

We all traipse up to dinner and a recap of the parade, where Cupros makes a haggard reappearance. We occupy ourselves eating while Gloria scolds him for about half an hour and the stylists compliment one another and slander their fellows' efforts. Finally the time comes to do something about the tributes. One in particular, who I will not let die because his official mentor is on a bender.

"So," I say, waiting until Gloria has a mouthful of pudding to be heard.

"Training. Together? Or…."

"Separate," Cupros finishes for me.

Allasan and Elmett glance uncertainly at one another.

"I don't mind together," Allasan says eventually. "I don't have anything…at all."

Elmett thinks a little longer. I can practically see him weighing up the disadvantage of letting this girl in versus having a second mentor who isn't an alcoholic. Finally he shrugs and says "Together is fine."

"All right," Cupros says, and I have to remind myself he's been doing this as long as there have been mentors, drunk or not. "You first girl. Allasan. You said you had nothing but everyone has something. Anything?"

She shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes and he heaves a sigh.

"Relax girl. Take a breath. Now. What are your grades like at school?"

To my surprise she does relax, though she continues to bite her lip before answering.

"Ok I guess. Not the best, but ok."

"Best subject?"

"History," she says without hesitation. "I'm pretty good at remembering things, though I don't know how that will help."

"It helped me," I tell her. "In the…in the…"

"Maze," Cupros finishes. "If you can remember, learn the plant stations. What you can eat and what will kill you. It's more important than learning to fight in three days. And you boy?"

Elmett hesitates a long time, and again I picture the cogs turning in his head, clockwork like he was dressed before. Finally he says, "I'm not top of my class, but I could be if I wanted to. I'm reasonable at most things, and I can make things. Not as well as you did…"

He trails off when he looks at me, and I remember to try and smile. Be supportive. Beetee said that was one of the most important things.

"And I'm not…" He pauses again, glancing around as though the walls might hear his secret and spill it to the world. I wouldn't be surprised if there were cameras recording us, though I doubt they'd release any footage to the public. "I'm not afraid to die, or to kill. I nearly died when I was six. I should have died, but didn't. Everything since is just borrowed time, and we're all just meat in the end."

This time when he meets my eyes I don't smile. I see that cold creature that kept me alive reflected in them. It probably lives in every victor, every person who killed other children to save their own skin. The knowledge that you value your own survival more than losing your soul, and that you can live with the blood of others on your hands. Unconsciously I clench my fingers together, feeling Jasper's blood, Felton's blood, my own blood sticky on them.

"…a factory accident."

I realize someone must have asked how he nearly died and refocus on the conversation.

"So what should I learn?" he asks and I look to Cupros and his experience first. After all he is Elmett's official mentor.

"Survival as well, but don't write off the weapons stations. Try them until you find something you like and focus on it. Simpler the better. You don't have time to become an expert, but you can learn something."

Elmett nods and Allasan smiles shyly at him. "If you want we could team up in the Arena. I can learn about food and shelter and do that while you…"

"No," Cupros says. "You both need to learn how to look after yourselves. There's no guarantee you'll end up together. And you should try a weapon too girl. If you can use it, learn it. If not then the others will underestimate you more."

She looks scared but nods, and the silence drops once more until Gloria decisively claps her hands.

"Well I think it's just about time for bed darlings! You're going to have a very busy day tomorrow and you need your sleep."

She shoos them off to bed and comes back to remind us about the interviews in the morning. Belatedly I remember my promise to Plutarch Heavensbee, and tell her it's a sponsorship meeting. She tells me to call him and rearrange my meeting as we'll be on at 11.40 and I won't have time to make it to the workshop and back.

Plutarch isn't happy, but he agrees when I promise to spend the whole afternoon there. The price of my victory.

I stop by Elmett's room on the way to bed. He's still awake and answers the door fully dressed.

"You can ask the servers…" _Deep breath Wiress. Focus_. "For…for paper and…and…pens."

For the first time since his name was called I see him smile. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

My belongings have been transferred from the Remake Center to my room here, including the miniature motor I was briefly toying with that I left out on the bench. I remind myself to check it's still in one piece later and rummage through the bedside table drawers until I find the book mentioned in the meeting. _Mentor Protocols and Responsibilities_. The crisp pages show it hasn't been thoroughly read even though the date in the front marks it as six years old. I try to remember what might have happened six years ago to cause a revision, but nothing jumps to mind. That was the year the boy from Seven won at the cost of his eyes and voice. Something about the final interviews? Or maybe they just revise it periodically.

It's boring reading, tedious and methodical, but with my memory I should only need to read it once. There are a few useful points which I fix to a prominent point in my mind, protocols for mentors to override stylists if they feel their aims are too divergent; a step-by-step guide to sponsorship gifts from obtaining funds through to selecting the gift and having it delivered; at which points we will be required to provide interviews to the public in normal circumstances.

I'm not too worried about the interview tomorrow. Cupros and I will be on together and Caesar Flickerman knows how to deal with my condition. He's very good at finishing my sentences, often with better words than I intended.

I finish the book around two and drop immediately to sleep, my dreams for once dominated by scrolling pages of boring text instead of drowning in a sea of blood.

~xXx~

The mentors for District Two leave the studio to resounding applause, glaring at us as they pass. Toria Wells even manages to jostle me on her way back-stage, and I can feel the ache in my arm within seconds from her sharp elbow. Seeder pointed her out to me during the meeting yesterday, spitting out her name with intense dislike. The only hint I needed to know the muscular woman from Two is unpleasant as they come.

I remind myself not to wipe my sweating palms on the purple velvet dress, one of Dido's of course from my Victory Tour. As mentors we don't receive stylists of our own, though Marius stopped by to do my make-up and hair for the stage.

_Remember, your family will be watching. The mentor interviews are always shown during mandatory viewing. Relax._

It almost works.

"And now we welcome to the stage the mentors from District Three: Cupros Glint and the reigning victor, Wiress LING!"

The studio audience gives a decent cheer as we step out into the light. I even remember to smile and wave as we take the seats opposite Caesar Flickerman and Narcissus Elkheart. Caesar has his usual flashing white smile, Narcissus his sallow leer familiar from the screen as he begins the interview.

"Welcome, welcome. Now first let's start with Wiress, our reigning victor. How are you enjoying experiencing the Games from this new angle?"

_What do I think of mentoring. I practiced this one._

"It has been…been interesting so…so far. "

"Maybe we should come back to that question later when you've had more chance to experience the full Games as a mentor," Caesar chips in with a smile, and I try not to think about doing my next interview with Allasan's death fresh in my mind.

"That…might be…"

"And of course, Cupros Glint, a veteran of the Games, filling in for Beetee Chan who was sadly unable to join us this year. Hel-LO Beetee, hope you're doing well!"

Caesar cuts in again over Narcissus when the latter opens his mouth to keep quizzing me.

Cupros forces a smile, and sits up from his slouch to give Caesar a friendly nod. He knows exactly what's going on too.

"And here I thought I'd earned a year off," he says, making sure it sounds jovial. Both hosts laugh with the audience.

"And miss out on all the fun?" Narcissus asks with a smirk. To his credit Cupros doesn't let his expression waver. He's even turned up apparently sober and in a clean shirt, though he didn't quite manage to shave. I hope Gloria doesn't bother him too much about that.

"So what can you tell us about this year's tributes? Are we going to see District Three go back-to-back this year?"

I glance at Cupros and catch the slight nod of his head, telling me that I should speak first. Get Allasan out of the way quickly so we can focus the attention on Elmett.

"Allasan Pinto is…is…a smart…smart girl. There's more to her than you…"

"More to her than we might expect? That sounds intriguing, doesn't it Narcissus? Can you tell us more?"

I smile and shake my head, dodging the question like I did the ones about my own abilities last year. Let them wonder. It's better than trying to make something up that will clearly be disproven later.

"I can't say. It would be best for…for her to…"

"Surprise us? Well I for one will look forward to being surprised. And what about your male tribute?"

He turns to Cupros and I let my shoulders slump in relief. As Narcussus takes over the quizzing of Elmett's virtues Caesar glances at me again. A brief look that says he knows the only surprise Allasan might give is not dying in the bloodbath. That he understands and won't make me scramble through false words in public. It makes me wonder how an insightful and seemingly decent man can spend his life hosting an annual slaughter festival.

"So do you rate him as high a chance as Wiress was last year?"

The sound of my own name drags me back to the present.

"He has a different sort of potential, as I said. Of course with a different field of tributes it is hard to say as well. But I wouldn't write him off just yet."

"We wouldn't dream of it, would we?" Caesar turns to the small studio audience, who cheer their support. Not that any of them showed up to sponsor him yesterday. Still, there's time. If he survives the deadly first day of the Games maybe they will remember this interview and look to him as an underdog.

Narcissus throws a few more questions about our opinions of the tribute parade and our stylists, and I manage to stutter out a mostly sincere reply. When our time is up we give one last wave to the audience and try not to run off stage, where we pass Denissa and Morstan waiting in the wings.

She glowers and he gives us a brief nod, and we're free as the applause starts up for them.

"If _you_ need me I'll be at Undertaker's," Cupros says, fingers reaching for the hip-flask that isn't in his pockets. "If that yabbermouth busybody needs me I'm at Sallibury's or possibly The Gate. I'll be back by the morning, and I'll be sober to take him through the interviews in a few days. That's the best I can do."

I don't argue with the offer. It's more than I expected. "If you need me I'll…I'll be…"

"You'll be at the Training Center or in the Sponsorship Hall. 'Cause you still think it makes a damn difference."

"Or at…Heavensbees," I add and he grimaces.

"Good luck with that."

He saunters off to get drunk again, to drown the monster inside him. Checking my watch I realize I need to hurry if I'm to change before heading to my own appointment. The last thing I need is Dido tracking me down and chastising me if I were to get oil stains on one of her prize outfits.

~xXx~

It's full dark by the time I make it back to the Training Center, though of course there is no such thing as dark in the center of the Capitol. Bright lights and loud music mark bars and street-parties, drunk celebrations as the people prepare to watch their favorite annual killing spree.

Gloria pounces on me as soon as I come in the door, demanding to know why it took so long to settle a sponsorship deal, and as our Escort she should really be informed of the details, and where in Panem had Cupros got to now…

Allasan is still at the table, picking over a bowl of grapes. Waiting for me to return.

"Well?"

I realize Gloria must have asked me something, though I didn't catch what.

"Were you even listening to me? I saw you were both at the interview. You must have _some_ idea where he disappeared to."

Oh. Cupros again.

"I think he…he said….Sall…Salli…"

"Sallibury's!" she says triumphantly and bustles out the door. From the table Allasan giggles.

"He's not going to be happy when she finds him is he?"

"He might not...not…be…there," I tell her and she laughs again, then groans.

"Oh boy, she's going to be mad at breakfast."

Probably. Especially if Cupros makes it back in without her noticing.

I sit down beside her and a white-clad server appears with a plate of pasta and meat-sauce. The smell reminds me that I haven't eaten since breakfast and I tuck in.

"So how did training…?"

Allasan smiles and begins shyly describing all the plants and insects she learned about today. Less fruits and berries than in my Games, and more leaves and grasses. Beetles and grasshoppers not bees and wasps. It sounds like this Games will be somewhere a lot more open than mine.

"Was there tree bark?" I ask and she frowns in thought, slowly shaking her head.

"Not that I remember. But she did say that we were only looking at edible foods or…or poisons."

I pretend not to notice her voice catch on the last. If she had any chance of making through the bloodbath, poison is what I would suggest she use. If she was able. I don't think she has it in her to kill.

"Ask tomorrow," I say firmly to distract her. "Say you heard…heard bark is…"

"Edible?" she guesses. "Or poison. Why though?"

"No bark, no…no…trees," I say, my mind supplying me with a vista from an old movie. Flat, empty grasslands roamed by big cats and massive gray-skinned beasts. Patches of scraggly bushes surrounding waterholes. Some clumps of trees in the distance, always far away and never spanning large areas.

There's no point trying to describe it to her, so instead I fetch out my sketch-pad and pens and draw it. I'm not as good at natural scenes as I am machinery, but she soon gets the point and says she recognizes the movie from school. It reminds me we're only a few years apart.

While I fill in the details I ask her to describe the other tributes, and watch as her face quickly drops.

"The boy from Two is scary. He got angry when the trainers didn't keep up with him at sword-fighting and started kicking one of them when he fell over. He didn't stop until the head trainer made him."

As I suspected, Two have sent a more savage tribute this year.

"The girl is scary too, though I don't think they like each-other much. But the six of them did sit together at lunch."

"Six?" I ask, remembering that the girl from Four wasn't a volunteer.

"One, Two and Four," she confirms. "And I heard some of them talking to Osbern from Ten, but he told them to leave him alone."

I've seen Games where the Careers had one or two other strong tributes with them. Usually when the alliance broke those other tributes were the first to die. I'm not sure whether it would be better to ally with them from the start or risk being a target from day one.

Probably not a question that will ever bother anyone from our district.

When my eyes start to itch I declare it time for bed. Allasan goes willingly, already yawning as she disappears into her room. No sign of Gloria or Cupros either, though it's nearly midnight when I finally crawl under the covers. I leave the sketch-book out as a reminder of my home-work for the Heavensbees.

My look over their prototype hovercraft engines turned into a full-scale tour of their research facility, where new designs and modifications are produced for miniature and full-size testing. The sheer array of tools had me drooling minutes after I'd walked in, which the workshop manager Damascus Riley promised to let me play with some of them in the future if I were to collaborate on this or that project. I didn't need offers of sponsorship money to agree to that.

It took me a bit of time to spot a few subtle problems with the prototype engine, but with my speech difficulties and the surrounding noise and bustle of the workshop I wasn't able to fully describe what I was seeing. Luckily their technical engineers said they would prefer diagrams anyway.

~xXx~

The final day of training dawns unusually overcast and gloomy. The atmosphere at breakfast is no more cheery, though at least doesn't include the loud argument from the previous day. I had a chance to talk to both Allasan and Elmett about their private sessions last night, the latter already well ahead with his planning assuring me that he knew what he was doing.

From Allasan I learned that he'd been practicing with ranged weapons and with a knife and staff, though hadn't shown anything amazing. It wouldn't surprise me to discover he is better than he lets on with at least one of them. For her part I managed to convince her that a low training score isn't necessarily a bad thing. After all, she doesn't want to make herself a target. It's the only thing I can think to do so that she won't be too disappointed with the inevitable 3 or 4.

I spend the rest of the morning finishing the technical drawings for Heavensbee's engineers, with my suggested modifications to the engine parts. Clara Redfern calls as I'm finishing up to tell me all about some new café she and her friends have discovered, and demanding to know how I've been in the Capitol for four whole days and not caught up with them yet.

I promise to meet her for lunch, excusing it to Gloria as another sponsorship interview that she can't dispute. Clara is old enough now to do her own sponsoring without having to go through her parents and I have to remind her that she probably shouldn't spend all her savings at once. Perry joins us for the meal, though the rest of their little group is busy with work or parties to stop by.

It's a fun way to spend the afternoon, and eventually Clara and I negotiate a sponsorship deal that involves one of our tributes making it to day three and that won't put her too much out of pocket. I don't know how much individual items will cost, but based upon the monetary sums discussed for my two gifts last year I figure the money should be enough to cover simple food or water, at least during the early days.

Clara tells me all about the architecture course she's finally started at the University, and how she's already sick of the male students who look down on her for being a pretty young girl. As 2 o'clock rolls around I excuse myself to make it back in time for the return of our tributes. Elmett arrives alongside me and answers my query with a bland shrug. I think he'll manage to at least match my score of 6, maybe push for a 7 or 8, though this would definitely increase the target on his back. Allasan arrives twenty minutes later, not unhappy, but in almost a state of trance-like shock. As though it's finally sunk in that she could be dead in two more days.

I avoid the potential break-down by hiding in my room and calling Beetee, who sounds a little better than when we left. He's still coughing too frequently for my liking and his voice is hoarse and raspy, but he's no longer rambling delirious with fever. Between his coughing fits and my drop-offs the conversation takes a while, but it leaves me feeling better even than the lunch-time meeting. He assures me that I can't do anything more for Allasan and that yes, Cupros usually does drink this much and if he says he'll be sober at a particular time and place then he generally will be.

He commiserates about Gloria's determined stance and reassures me that few to no sponsors is the norm for our district. By dinnertime I'm in such a good mood that Lucia and Gloria give me odd looks, and Allasan even rises from her numbness to smile once or twice.

Both stylists join us to view the training scores in the lounge, where Elmett's bland poise doesn't quite cover his anxiousness. He hopes to do well, I realize, and share a glance with Cupros. The older man shrugs and drinks, his usual response to just about everything. Let it happen as it happens.

The show starts as always with District One. Both the stocky boy and the tall girl score 9s. Both of them are topped by District Two who score 10s. A strong year for Careers it seems. Then it's Elmett's bland face followed by the number 7. Above average for an out-district tribute. Too much above average. They'll be watching for him now.

Allasan scores a 3. Gloria makes soothing noises and Cupros drinks some more. I wonder if the Careers might leave her alone and target Elmett instead.

The Career boy from Four scores a 9 as well, though the girl only manages a 6. Still an above average Career pack, especially when none of the next five tributes score more than 5.

The girl from Seven rates a 6, and the girl from Eight tops her with a 7, but I can't imagine either of them having much chance against the strong Careers. Osbern, the massive eighteen-year-old from Ten scores a 9, high enough to make him a worry for the pack, especially since he refused to join them. Probably their first target after the bloodbath if both of ours go down.

The boy from Eleven scores a 6, the remaining three manage 4s. Not a whole lot of new information. We send the tributes to bed to discuss angles with the stylists for the interviews. The only angle I have for Allasan is seemingly sweet, as though she's hiding something. Elmett is a little trickier. He's painted a target on his back with his above-average training score. Of course coming from a victor's district has its own target as well, and eventually Cupros decides that he should throw some arrogance into the act. As though he knows he's smarter than the rest of them in the hope it might stop the Careers from attacking him outright if they think he has a secret plan.

Even though we're mentoring them together we split up for interview practice. Unlike Carmenius' unhelpful litany of faults and corrections, Gloria has Allasan smiling again as she shows her the proper way to sweep out her skirts and walk in heels. Unlike me, Allasan has no trouble balancing in the monstrosities and the few inches of height add to her appearance more than all the pretty dresses and make-up.

Rather than try and stammer through some questions, I write a list of likely ones down and Gloria does her best Caesar Flickerman impersonation, adding in a few of her own that I very much doubt a man will think to ask.

We break for lunch feeling happier than I expected, and I let Allasan spend the afternoon talking to her mirror and practice her pretty walking and sitting. Just by tilting her head a little she conveys the possibility of something secret in her otherwise very convincing sweet little girl act that I don't think is an act.

Even if it's not the most memorable interview, it'll be better than having her break down on stage, and I use the last hours of the day to drop in my finished sketches to Heavensbee's project engineer.

Marco stays for dinner and only complains a little when I demand drawings of Allasan's interview outfit, a rather respectable silvery dress with puffy shoulders and lace on the sleeves. She'll look younger than her age, but in this case that's not a bad thing so I let it go.

Having remembered my phone, I take the opportunity to call home where my mother and Balia scold me for not calling sooner and fill my ears with the happiest conversation topics they can. It takes me a little while to realize why, and when I remember I'm about to oversee the first of probably many deaths, children of District Three's blood on my hands, I find that solemn disquiet settling back in.

In my dreams I snare Allasan in one of my traps and laugh as the thorns tear her to pieces. I sneak up behind the feasting Elmett and ram my knife into his neck, over and over until the bloody glasses slide off his face and it's Beetee lying dead at my feet.

When I wake I surrender to the cold voice in the back of my mind. My inner monster. It stays in charge for the rest of the day, which passes by in a blur of color and unretained conversations until the interviews. I sit in the stands with the rest, letting the monster take over again so that I don't feel too panicked by the surrounding crowd. Sour Vikus to my right. Cupros to my left, sneaking sips from his hip-flask. The squeaky-voiced woman behind me and her hairy friend. Lucia and Marco in the seats in front.

The interviews follow the usual pattern. The Careers are eager and spoiling for a fight. Brutus from Two seems particularly savage, even going as far to ridicule the chances of several of his alliance members. Allasan pulls of her sweet if unremarkable act and Elmett follows with an arrogant, cold attitude that sounds all too familiar. My inner monster smiles. I don't.

The boy from Four rebukes some of Brutus' comments, the girl's tongue tangles around her words. Several seats down, Diya's face is already buried in her hands as her girl Ava stumbles to the centre-stage. Three mumbling minutes later she's replaced by the boy, who does no better, and visibly quails when he accidentally catches the eye of Flora from Two, who makes a blatant throat-slitting gesture.

Tansy from Seven tries and almost convinces the crowd that she's a confident fighter. Jessi from Eight is sly and elusive, and promises to put on a good show. Osbern receives a massive cheer from the crowd and he thanks them with a friendly half-bow before taking his seat.

That broad district accent makes him sound friendly and harmless, though it's clear from the start that he's not at all intimidated by the glowering Careers. Caesar asks him about his strategies, and he replies with a grin that he's learned all he needs to win back home. Anyone special back home? No, no-one in particular. No-one as pretty as these Capitol girls for sure. Maybe he can steal one to take back home with him when he wins.

Most of the mentors' heads turn to look down the line, where Ten's only male victor, a grizzled man in his sixties gives his boy two thumbs up. The girl from Eleven provides the inevitable break-down into tears, and in the ensuing silence I can hear Seeder's sigh from fifteen seats away.

The girl from Twelve barely holds it together as she speaks of her family back home. The boy doesn't and old Marcie's muttering is even more audible than Seeder's sighing.

It takes far too long to escape the crowd, and by the time we make it back to our rooms I'm feeling edgy and uncomfortable. My skin keeps prickling and a pounding headache has taken over any rational thought in my brain. The first thing I see when stepping out of the lift is a smiling Allasan, still in her silver dress and make-up, who wants to know if she did ok.

"You were…fine," I tell her, hoping rather cruelly that she'll leave me be now so that I can sleep and have a clear head for tomorrow.

Instead she beams back and asks, "So do you think I have a chance?"

I want to say yes. Should say yes. If it's the last thing she ever hears from me, the least I can do is be positive, but my hesitation says it all. Her face falls and the tears well in her eyes as she realizes what I've known all along. She is going to die tomorrow morning and there is nothing either of us can do about it. She scurries to her room, the sound of sobbing trailing behind her and I whisper "I'm sorry" to her retreating back.

There is nothing I can do.

I'm not surprised to have nightmares again that night.


	11. Chapter 11

Half an hour before the Games begin we're allowed to enter the Viewing Hall, the other ground floor wing opposite the Sponsorship Hall. The large central screen dominates the end wall, with three much smaller screens running in panels down each side. Couches and chairs are arranged in front of small tables, all facing the screen. Prime positions to view the show. Along both sides of the room, long tables filled with food and drinks are being stocked by white-clad servers.

At the back of the room twelve individual booths are lined up, with lockable doors and sound-proofed walls if the Mentor's guidebook is to be believed. Cupros heads straight for the whiskey so I let myself in to the booth labelled 3. Inside are two chairs, two pairs of screens and a pair of phones. A drawer under the table holds notepads and pens, a handheld device with a menu of suggested sponsorship gifts and a Capitol phone directory. Everything we need to keep our tributes alive.

When I step back out the room has begun to fill up. While only official mentors and Escorts are allowed to use the booths, all victors are welcome to view from the public area if they're in town. There are plenty of extras, especially from the Career districts, who have made the pilgrimage.

Cupros is busy talking over full glasses to Tolby and Wilf so I turn away and join Seeder, Diya and Pelline, who are making the most of a tantalizing fruit platter. I'm tempted by the strawberries, but decide to wait until after the bloodbath to eat. I'd rather not sour my favorite foods by throwing them back up as I watch my tribute die.

This thought doesn't seem to bother them. Then again Diya is the youngest of the group, and has been doing this for ten years already. Their stomachs have probably learned to cope. Another woman who looks vaguely familiar joins them as I dither, and when I finally wander over she is introduced as Jackie Ledger. Another of Ten's victors, and a friend of their boy's family, though she felt too emotionally compromised to want to mentor him. They all agree he has a good chance.

I had expected we would take our places in the booths just before the Games started, but it turns out that the whole group traditionally watches the bloodbath from the public area as there's no point in sending gifts during the early fighting.

When the screen finally lights up I find myself clenching the glass of water in my hand so tight that my whole body starts shaking. Seeder, with her years of wisdom, pries the glass from my hands and shoves me into the closest couch. Diya sits down beside me and says, "Don't worry, it'll be over in a flash."

And that's the sad truth.

The tributes rise on their platforms into a bleak, flat landscape almost identical to the one I drew for Allasan. When they cut around the circle I see she is three places along from the boy from One and when the gong rings he ignores the boy from Eleven and the girl from Seven to crash-tackle her to the ground. Grabbing her slight frame, he grabs her head and smashes it several times into the metal plate until she stops flailing and droops. He sits up and wraps one hand in her hair, the other on her shoulder and twists sharply. CRACK! He leaves her in heap, half-lying on the plate as he heads for the Cornucopia.

She wasn't the smartest of girls or the prettiest, but she could have done something with her life. Now she never will because I survived last year.

Slowly, slowly I let out the breath. Someone hands me a drink, and I down it despite the alcoholic burn. My face feels wet, and I realize I must have been crying. Someone takes my empty glass and replaces it with a full one. I drink again and am almost disappointed when I taste only water. Seeder looks at me sternly and says, "I think your district has enough alcoholic issues."

She's right of course. I drink the water and the shaking slowly subsides.

The lowest small screen on the right-hand panel shows the twenty-four official Games photos. Four are already grayed out, including Allasan's. Elmett's is still colored. I look for him in the different camera viewpoints on the smaller screens and eventually spot him running into the grassy plains. He has a small pack looped over his shoulder and a knife in his hand. Better than I'd hoped for him.

On the big screen the bloodbath is still going. The girl from One and the pair from Four have taken up defensive positions around the central supplies, while their allies do most of the fighting. When they're not fighting, the other Careers start gathering up supplies, piling them where their allies can defend. It looks like they don't want anyone getting away with much useful, though their main competition has already beaten them to the mark.

Jessi from Eight and Osbern from Ten both have packs and weapons, and even Tansy from Seven has got her hands on supplies, if not the axe she was after. I feel Seeder stiffen beside me and she whispers, "You stupid boy. We told you not to. We told you."

Sure enough, the dark-skinned boy from Eleven has made a run at an unclaimed spear, and actually gets it in hand when Brutus and Malachite corner him against the rear of the Cornucopia.

"Well, well," Brutus says with a laugh. "What do we have here? A rat with a stick? Don't you know rats belong on sticks."

The boy's eyes dart to the small gap between them and he forces himself upright, bluffing bravado.

"Who you calling a rat? Are you too scared to fight me that you got to go two on one for a little rat like me?"

Malachite snarls and charges him. The boy takes the opportunity to side-step him and make a run for it. Brutus bends over and picks up a chunky metal loop, hefting it in his hand before he throws. He connects with the boy's skull, a dull thud on the microphones as the boy collapses with a moan, not dead, but dazed enough that he can't get off all-fours before they reach him. Lazily Brutus hooks the spear away with his foot and kicks out, catching the boy in the ribs.

"Oh Barnard, why didn't you listen," Seeder says beside me.

Barnard groans as Malachite kicks him again, then screams as the third kick takes him lower. He curls into a ball, which only prompts a fourth kick—Brutus again—this time to the base of his spine.

Malachite laughs and bends over to retrieve the spear.

"Rat on a stick you said?"

The razor-sharp point rams through Barnard's stomach and he curls around it with an agonized moan. Without a word I rise from my seat and walk the short distance to the tables, where Pelline hands me a spare cup, already brimming with something pungent and gold.

I pass it to Seeder, who downs it the same way I did a few minutes ago while she watches the boy from her district writhe. Another glance at the photos screen shows me her girl is already gone. At least I still have someone to hope for.

Back at the Cornucopia the Careers aren't done yet. The four remaining allies have surrounded the surprisingly agile boy from Twelve, though they can't keep him still long enough to take him down. While they're busy the girl from Five is grabbing armfuls of supplies from their now unguarded stash. She gets two packs, a knife and another smaller bag before they notice her, and when two of them turn to chase her the boy from Twelve runs through the gap and claims a pack of his own.

Flora eventually catches up to the girl from Five, and the short-lived fight comes to its inevitable conclusion. The boy escapes though, barrelling through the knee-high grass towards the tiny patch of trees about a mile away. The six split up to gather the rest of the strewn supplies while Barnard continues to moan.

After ten minutes Zirconia from One gets sick of the noise and cuts his throat, and the Gamemakers fire the cannons. All eight of them. A slightly below average bloodbath, and a quick one, though the wide open plains and tiny patches of shelter should make easy hunting.

As the chatter picks up through the room I look once more to the photo screen, this time paying attention to both rows of pictures. Allasan is gone of course. The girl from Five, both from Six and the boy from Seven. Barnard and the girls from Eleven and Twelve.

More survivors thanks to the Careers taking the defensive option. Objectively I'm not sure they made the right choice, as their main competition still escaped with useful supplies and weapons. Then I realize I'm thinking about the most efficient way to kill children and decide to find something else to do.

A gentle tap on the shoulder makes me whirl, and Glory Winchester raises his hands with an apologetic smile. "Hey, sorry about your girl."

"It's…it's…"

"It's what our district expected him to do," he says with a shrug.

"I…know," I tell him. I did know, and it's nice to see that he's not gloating about it.

He shrugs again and says, "Better luck with your boy," before heading for his booth.

"He's not a bad sort," Diya says, appearing beside me with drinks in hand. I take one, but make myself sip only. Seeder was right about enough alcoholics.

We wander back over to a group of three, all mentors who have already lost their tributes, and when Tolby raises his glass we all drink. The pair from Six have already disappeared and Marcie from Twelve is hobbling into her booth, still looking sour. Not that she could be blamed, mentoring for all twenty-six years alone without bringing a single person back.

They're the only district with a single victor. The first victor, though there's no record of her Games that I remember seeing. Only a name in a history book next to a number. Right after the Dark Days I can't imagine it was a particularly Capitol-friendly Games.

In fact, the earliest I can remember seeing anything from was a snippet of the 7th Games, where a boy from District Two went on a savage rampage. The arena was half a mile across and the tributes entered from gates in the wall, running for the pile of weapons and medic kits in the middle.

Back then the Games rarely lasted the day, according to the books, though it wasn't long after that that they went to the more modern format. Made it less of a contest of strength and more a challenge of survival. Possibly because only two of the first ten victors were girls.

Sometimes I hate having a good memory.

Cupros assures me that he has everything under control, but wouldn't mind a break after the evening interviews are done. I make one final round of the food platters and head back upstairs to call Allasan's family, and to write down something coherent about a girl I barely knew whose body is still lying crumpled beside her starting platform.

~xXx~

Even with words written on a card and memorized, the final interview is hard. Caesar does his best to help me, but by the end of the ten minutes I'm struggling to get two or more words strung together. He answers the last question himself and releases me from my duty. Diya is on next and pats my arm as she passes, stony faced. She's had a fair bit of practice with first night interviews.

I reach the Training Center lifts before remembering I promised Cupros a break, and change direction back to the other wing. There's still a handful of people in the public area, mostly non-mentor victors from the Career districts.

Cupros and Gloria are both in the booth when I open the door, the latter nattering away about something. He practically leaps out of the seat when he sees me, tells me not to do anything unless Elmett ends up in an immediate disaster and leaves.

"I do hope he's going to meet with those sponsors I was telling him about," Gloria says with a sniff.

"Why Felinus Drake and Inigo Bermann are just the…."

I tone her out and take his vacated seat, flicking the lever on the chair until it drops comfortably level with the screens. The left-hand side looks to be the main camera view, currently showing the Career pack feasting on apples and crackers. As in my year there is friendly banter between them, verging on unfriendly edges every now and then, with hands occasionally closing on weapons and suspicious looks thrown at turned backs.

The other screen is focused on Elmett, split to show a near and far camera angle. He's huddled down by a patch of bushes, sorting through his provisions. The pack is bigger than the one I escaped with, holding a few days' worth of food, a water bottle, some rope and wire, matches, and a collection of palm-sized metal loops like the one Brutus threw at Barnard.

They would have been useful to me as simple pulley rigs, but in this essentially tree-less arena they're of considerably less use. Elmett seems to have something in mind for them though, and toys with a grass stem for a bit before smiling.

In the fading light he pulls out the rope and ties the hard metal loops to one end, knotting repeatedly until they don't jingle. When he's done he coils it up in his hand and throws it suddenly in front of him, and I realize what he's after. A weapon with a bit of range to it, the weighted rope-end to be twirled and slammed into an opponent. It won't last long against anyone with a blade, but I suppose it could be of some use.

This done, he lies back in the grass and closes his eyes until the blare of the anthem announces the death recap. I watch his face show the tiniest flicker of emotion when Allasan's photo appears, then shift my attention to the screen on the left, which shows the full death scenes.

Allasan's is first, followed by Ava from Five, who goes down again to Flora's sword-thrust. Brutus hacks down the girl from Six. Four's boy spears Six's boy through the leg, then finishes him off with a blow to the neck. Brutus again, before he had the machete. He grabs the small boy from Seven and twists his neck with a laugh. After Sparrow's effort last year I'm not surprised to see him take out the nimble thirteen-year-old.

Zia from One finishes off Seeder's girl after Halga from Four wounds her, but seems unwilling to finish the job. She also technically gets the kill for Barnard, though they show Malachite and Brutus beating and spearing him first.

Malachite also accounts for the girl from Twelve, though she's already dazed from a hit from Eight's boy, him winning the tussle for a small loaf of bread.

Done with the death recap, they cut around the remaining tributes in turn, showing the Careers preparing for a night hunt and arguing about who will stay behind to guard their precious supplies.

Elmett practicing with his rope again. The boy from Five alternates between lying in the grass and forcing himself into a stumbling run. Tansy from Seven seems to be heading for another distant patch of trees. Not surprising for someone from the lumber district. Jessi from Eight has found a shallow pool of water ringed by bushes, and is gathering the leaves. The boy from Eight seems to be walking in circles, constantly looking over his shoulder as he takes small bites from his bread.

The pair from Nine appear to be working together, though they only managed a bag of crackers and two plastic sheets from the Cornucopia. Osbern is tying the rope from his pack into a loop and staring at the stars. His female counterpart is curled up in the grass crying. She's bleeding from cuts across her face and shoulder, though I didn't see who from.

The boy from Twelve is still close to the Cornucopia, crouched in the grass a few hundred yards away, watching the Careers argue.

It focuses back on their group where the argument continues between Brutus and Zia from One, still debating who should stand guard.

"…of course I said to him…"

It takes me a moment to remember Gloria is still there, still yammering on about something or another.

There's a note-pad and pen beside the phones. I pick it up and start drawing as the Careers finally head out, the opposite direction to Elmett's location.

~xXx~

Cupros arrives back around three in the morning. I groggily raise my head from the eleven pages I've filled with engine drawings as the booth door opens. I'd tried checking back every half-hour or so to see if Elmett was still fine, but lost track of time at some point, and apparently dozed off. I don't remember Gloria leaving.

One last look shows our boy is sleeping fitfully, knife in hand. The four Careers out hunting—Malachite, the pair from Two and the boy from Four—have passed Twelve's hiding place, but have looped back around, and are nearing the girl from Ten.

I don't want to watch them find her and head up to bed as Cupros takes over the chair.

I'm not sure if I'm dreaming or simply replaying her death over and over in my mind, but I do wake with a start to a blare of sunlight and a repetitive ringing. It takes me a few seconds to realize it's the phone.

When I hear Plutarch's voice on the other end I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle the groan and try to focus on what he's saying. Engine. Miniature prototype. Modifications. Today at twelve.

I glance at my watch, which shows quarter past eleven. I doubt Cupros will thank me if I disappear, though I suppose he's used enough to Beetee doing it.

I tell Plutarch I'll be there and have a quick shower and breakfast before heading downstairs. Cupros is sitting on the couches with Tolby, Boyd, and old Abram from Ten. Elmett's photo is still lit. The girl from Ten's is faded out.

"Come to relieve me?" Cupros asks as I reach them.

"I have to…go…"

He rolls his eyes and waves me away. "Go then. Make sure they're willing to pay if our boy needs the money."

His way of reminding me that I'm still being helpful to our tribute. I go feeling less guilty, and pretend not to see Gloria waving as I slip out the door. Two reporters ambush me briefly on the building steps and follow along as I keep walking, asking about my thoughts on Allasan's death and Elmett's continued chances. I tell them to go watch last night's interview and pretend not to hear any more questions until we reach the workshop. Thankfully they don't try to follow me inside.

I spend the rest of the day happily losing myself in the demands of technology. The engineers have put together several hand-sized versions of the hovercraft engine with various suggested changes for testing. Two of them work better than the original.

Damascus Riley shows me how to use the high power laser cutter and 3D plastics printer, though I can't do anything of my own without the computer drawing software. I beg and he promises to send me a copy that I can use at home.

There's a large screen playing the Games on the rear wall, though the workshop noise drowns out the sound. The few times I look, nothing interesting is happening. As we near four in the afternoon and the workers start heading home the boy from Twelve tries to raid the Cornucopia. He thinks it's unguarded but the boy from Four is lurking in the entrance and quickly puts an end to his plans and existence.

I walk back through a busier crowd; the Games are a holiday of sorts here in the Capitol, though plenty of the workers are still working, albeit shorter hours. Back home, factory shifts and school hours are adjusted around the mandatory viewing instead, leaving everyone sleep-deprived and miserable. Though most people back home wouldn't want to miss out on the pay. Making ends meet is hard enough as is.

There's a few more people around in the Viewing Hall, settling in to eat dinner while watching the big screen. Gloria meets me at the door to our booth to inform me that Cupros went to rest four hours ago and she's been looking after Elmett all by herself since. Not that she actually _did_ anything.

I grab a plate of food and join Nio and Olivia, both of whom still have their tribute alive. Olivia's girl has reached the patch of trees and found a small rodent-like creature to kill and cook. Nio's boy is a long way from anyone, and is plucking uncertainly at the grass stalks around him. He keeps coughing and Nio tells me that he hasn't had any water since the start.

The pair from Nine have found Jessi's water-hole and are whispering together a hundred yards away, crouched behind a lonely tree. Elmett has found his own small pool of water near another patch of bushes, and appears to be trying to fish with his wire, to no avail.

The Career pack are resting after an afternoon tussle with a gigantic bird. They are currently roasting chunks of it over a coal fire, courtesy of a generous sponsor.

The collection of Career victors in the Viewing Hall start a rowdy drinking game around eight and I retreat into the booth to watch Elmett give up on fishing and practice with his rope. I fall asleep again in the chair and wake suddenly to a hand shaking my shoulder.

As the blind panic clears I realize I have the man who was behind our stall in the Sponsorship Hall pinned by the throat to the wall and let go with a stammered apology. He smiles ruefully, rubbing his throat, and tells me he should have known better. Apparently there's a couple who want to talk sponsorship deals. Cupros isn't here yet. I hate talking, but I go to meet Mr and Mrs Rainbird, and their little dog Gemmit. An hour later we have another sponsor and I have a headache and a bad case of the shakes.

I hear a cannon fire as I walk through the door back into the Viewing Room, and for a moment I think it was all for nothing. But no, it's the boy from Eight. Wilf swears and throws his glass at the wall, sending a cascade of shards onto the assorted cheeses below it.

The boy from Four is wiping off his knife, his district partner beside him looking green in the face. I'd guess they cornered Wilf's boy and made their non-volunteer ally prove herself. It looks like she failed. We can only hope that it causes dissent in their alliance; if they break early and kill one-another off then Elmett's chances will go through the roof.

Cupros is back in the booth again. He's just sent Elmett more water purifiers. The nearest tribute to him, Nio's boy, is over a mile away and relatively harmless. There's nothing else for us to do but wait.


	12. Chapter 12

The next day is quiet. Too quiet. Everyone plods along in their own little patch of the grasslands from sunrise to sunset and into the night.

The day after the Arena strikes.

The Career pack has already started to strain at the edges, and after a long and vocal argument ended by Flora back-handing Malachite in the mouth, decided not to go hunting that night. As a reward they are wakened by a stampede of deer-like creatures with long, pointed antlers. Gazelle, according to Games announcer Narcissus Elkheart.

Individually the creatures aren't much of a challenge, each about the size of a grown man. The herd of forty or so together send most of the Career pack scrambling out of the way, trampling over food and water, butting into the tributes, and stomping repeatedly over the girl from Four when she's not quick enough to dodge away.

One of the bigger gazelle catches Brutus on the forearm with its horn. He chases it down and tackles it by the hind-quarters. A hoof to the face breaks his nose. He laughs savagely and plunges his knife into the animal's spine, pinning it down until it stops thrashing. He calls back to the others that they're having venison steaks for dinner and they all laugh with him. Even the girl from Four, who seems battered but ok.

Tansy is the Gamemakers next target. One minute she's stripping leaves from a flowering bush, the next she's screaming first in shock, then in pain as a swarm of butterflies settle on her uncovered skin. They flit off in a great cloud of blue when she starts swatting them, leaving swollen red mounds up and down her arms and neck.

A great gray beast with a horn on its nose takes offence to Jessi drinking from its water-hole around eleven. She leaves when it starts pawing the ground, and the pair from Nine follow her towards Tansy's trees on the horizon.

Osbern is filling his water-bottle from his own pool when a great mass of scaly skin and teeth lunges out, catching the sleeve of his jacket in its long-muzzled jaw. He rips the jacket off and lets the beast have it, stumbling backwards and swearing impressively as he gets well out of reach. The reptile sinks back into the pool with its brown prize.

Around noon, Elmett and the boy from Five find themselves each facing a trio of wild dogs. Elmett suffers a bite on one leg, but hits back with his weighted rope, eventually killing one. The other two back off and circle around to where Nio's boy is still being harried.

Unlike Elmett, his only weapon is a woven grass noose, and he takes nasty scratches and bites before he gives up on fighting and runs. They chase, nipping his heels, and I glance towards the mentors from Five when I realize which direction.

The back of the couch shifts and I turn to see Cupros leaning on it, his brow creased in a frown.

"Now we see if he's got it in him," he says. From the tone I'm not sure whether he's hoping for a yes or no.

The dogs back off when the two boys are twenty feet apart. Nio's boy is younger, only sixteen, but a touch taller and heavier in build. Unarmed, but desperate. He drops into a crouch and the pair circle one-another.

"You know-" Elmett starts. The boy cuts him off with a ragged snarl.

"I don't want to hear it. I'd rather die fighting than be eaten by dogs."

Our boy shrugs, and suddenly dances forwards, swinging the weighted rope out towards his opponent's head. Five ducks and rolls, and comes up ready. The next rope swing hits him in the thigh and he staggers. Another one misses and he gets in close, taking our boy to ground, pinning Elmett's smaller frame with his body as he rains down untrained blows.

Elmett twists and squirms, and eventually gets a hand free. He goes straight for Five's eyes. The younger boy screams and claps a hand to his face. A moment later there is a knife buried in Five's chest.

Elmett shoves away the bleeding boy who rolls off him, chest heaving, and staring at his own hands, as though he can't believe he just did that. I curl my own hands in understanding as his eyes widen in horror and he scrambles back on all fours through the grass. It takes him thirty seconds to gain control and he staggers to his feet, wiping his bloodied mouth on the back of his hand, and his hands on the back of his shirt. The cannon fires and he remembers to retrieve his knife before the hovercraft takes the body.

Cupros lets out a slow breath and walks over to the sideboard, where he pours two glasses of spirits. He takes one to Nio and they both drink a toast to another fallen tribute.

Elmett spends the rest of the day sitting with his hands wrapped around his legs, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the blood-spattered grass where he killed a boy.

I go back upstairs and call home again, because I need to hear their voices. Balia, mother, father, Ezra. Balia even puts Malcy on for a few seconds, though he doesn't really manage a conversation. It doesn't matter; it's their voices I needed to hear. Barely ten seconds after I've hung up the phone rings again, and I hesitantly answer it.

Beetee, who has been trying to get through for the last hour. He's starting to sound better, and very deliberately directs the conversation away from boys knifing other boys in the chest. Gloria summons me at dinner-time to take over from Cupros, who's been called in for another interview. I go, and even half-listen to her chatter while we watch Brutus and Malachite spitting slabs of gazelle meat over another sponsor-provided coal fire. They're certainly not going hungry this Games.

Elmett looks up when the sky shows the photo of the boy he killed, then goes right back to staring at the shadowed patch of grass. I decide I have to do something to wake him up and scroll through the list of gifts on the computer in the booth until I find what I'm looking for.

It costs nearly a fifth of our current sponsor funds, but will be worth it if it wakes him up in time for the next bad thing to come calling. In under a minute the silver parachute drops beside him. He slowly unwraps it, smiles and raises the bite-sized square of bread to the sky.

"Still fighting," he says softly to the stars. "Still fighting Soni, Wills. I'll come back, just like I promised."

He makes it last, one nibble at a time, and when he's done he cleans the knife, re-coils his rope and drinks some water before curling up to sleep.

The booth door swings open and Cupros steps inside.

"You sent the bread?"

Suddenly I'm worried he had other plans for the money.

"I…I…had to do…"

He half-smiles and jerks his head positively.

"No, you did right. The boy needed waking up. I was going to send him something when I got back, but your idea was better. And cheaper. Now let's hope it works. "

He sends me to go get some sleep, and even though I've done nothing all day I fall into bed and nod off.

In the morning there are four more people willing to sponsor our tribute. Cupros and Gloria deal with them while I keep watch in the Hall. It's another quiet day. Jessi decides not to continue on to the trees and turns aside, back towards the Cornucopia. The pair from Nine keep on and reach the trees by mid-day. They're struggling a bit, and while Robin and Whisper got them a water-bottle and purifiers, they haven't eaten much. Tansy sees them arrive and keeps to the far end of the trees, though the whole patch is only thirty-odd yards across. They don't spot her, and she doesn't seem to want to engage in a two-on-one fight.

Osbern has been walking all day, trying to find a new drinking hole not inhabited by a savage reptile. Eventually he comes across Jessi's old spot and settles in.

Another quiet day. The Gamemakers send a swarm of termites through the Careers' camp when they decide not to go night hunting again. The tensions between them are running pretty high, snappish conversations and sideways glances. Fingers twitching towards weapons. None of them want to leave in case the others take the supplies, and no two of them trust one-another to go out in a pair, except Four, but the others won't let them.

A ticking time-bomb that suits us well.

~xXx~

The next morning I have my first proper run-in with Carmenius Fallow, our previous Escort. I'd seen him around over the last two weeks but hadn't actually spoken to him. We didn't tend to be very civil with one another, a trend he is apparently keen on continuing.

"It's going to be a good morning," he tells me with that smug smirk, stepping in my path as I enter the room.

"Not if I have to…to…"

He laughs over my stuttering and nods towards the screen.

"They're getting pretty close to your pathetic little boy. When they find him and realize he's from your district they're going to do him good and slow. Make a nice show of it."

On the screen the Career pack, led by the boy from Four are tracking along into dangerously familiar territory. I can't think of a reply to this that doesn't involve severe violence or threats, so I step past him and continue on to our booth to make sure Cupros is awake and aware of the imminent danger.

"Don't go too far," he calls out after me with another cruel laugh. "You don't want to miss the show."

Cupros is awake and looking decidedly uneasy. Gloria is beside him, fingers clasped over her mouth in nervous anticipation as the group of six gets closer and closer to the water-hole. There's no trees or rocks or anything for cover. Just the long grasses, a few scraggly waist-high bushes and the water-hole itself.

Elmett must see their outlines from a distance, because he suddenly drops low in the grass, crawling slowly with his pack towards the water. I'm not sure what he's thinking; the slight dip will hide him until they get close, another ten, fifteen minutes maybe, but no more. The pool is only twenty feet across, and goodness knows how deep. The water isn't clear and might cover him if he were to jump in, but there's no way he can hold his breath for the long minutes it would take them to pass. Unless…

My eyes drift to the edges of the pool, to the thin, reedy grasses. Of course.

"Reeds," I say.

Gloria stares at me like I've gone mad. Cupros shakes his head sadly and grunts, "Not thick enough to hide him. They'd see him in….Oh."

He's not a stupid man; it doesn't take him long to work it out.

Sure enough, Elmett wades into the murky water, and suddenly I remember the great beast that leaped at Osbern from another pool. But this is interesting, so unless it's already there the Gamemakers won't release one. I hope.

Elmett submerses the pack first, grabs a handful of mud and smears his face and hair with it, then slices the thickest of the reeds down and trims both ends. It's not until he sinks down into the rippling water with the reed in his mouth that Gloria understands and claps her hands joyfully.

"Oh, he's such a clever boy, isn't he?"

Yes he is. But is he clever enough? Or lucky enough?

After three minutes with him still alive, it's clear he isn't drowning and no giant reptiles are chasing after him, and his face surfaces again until he hears the approaching figures come close, ducking once more under the murky waters by the reeds. When the Career pack reaches the pool a few minutes later, they pause to wander around the edges and refill water bottles. Flora picks up a lumpy chunk of dirt and throws it sideways across the water. It sinks with a plop about five feet from Elmett's hiding place. Brutus laughs at his district partner, who scowls, and they leave.

Three more minutes, five. Finally Elmett's head surfaces to peer around cautiously. He crawls out, shivering and gasping, pack clenched in his fist as he tries to cough quietly and clear the mud from his face and throat. Cupros waits until the Careers are well away before sending a cheap cloth sack.

Elmett acknowledges this with a tired smile and rips down the stitching to make a towel that doubles as a blanket.

The coverage soon turns to the north, where the pair from Nine have finally come across Tansy from Seven in the little patch of trees. I don't know how she hid from them for so long, but the inevitable fight has come. Nine's girl, Gretal keeps Tansy's attention, yelling threats and waving the hefty stick she picked up as a weapon, while the boy Kern circles around.

Like them, Tansy has a sturdy piece of wood that she shifts from hand to hand uncertainly. Gretal darts in and out, dodging a blow and Kern pounces from behind, slamming Tansy over the head.

She cries out and falls, an unmoving heap on the ground. Kern stares at her limp form, his own staff dropping from numb fingers as he steps back, muttering "I…I didn't mean to…"

He looks like he's about to be sick. Gretal glowers at him as she prods Tansy's slumped form with her foot. "She's not dead stupid. No cannon. Now we have to-"

She doesn't get any further. Tansy rolls to the side, knocking Gretal's weapon clear and before either of them can react, has Gretal in a choke-lock from behind. Blood streams down her face from a nasty cut in her hair. Her eyes have changed from the uncertain, scared girl to those of a killer. Just like mine did the day the Careers hunted me in the maze, when I truly realized it was kill or be killed and that I really was willing to do the former to survive.

She's big for a girl, the eighteen-year-old from the lumber district, and she has no trouble keeping the smaller, younger Gretal pinned while the latter's face turns red then blue. Kern takes a hesitant step forward and Tansy screams at him. It's not entirely coherent but I catch the words, "-any closer-" and "-kill you-"

His nerve breaks and he runs. Runs with tears in his eyes, muttering over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I didn't want to…I'm sorry…" as he runs and stumbles and runs some more. The cannon fires and Tansy drops Gretal's limp body, stripping off the jacket, belt, and shoelaces before abandoning her to the hovercraft. If she cries, she hides it well from the camera.

I spell Cupros, who heads upstairs for a nap, and join Robin, Boyd and Glory in the common area. Glory hands me a drink and says, "Your boy was lucky this morning."

"Clever," I correct him as I accept the drink, remembering to sip slowly. They all laugh.

We spend the next few hours swapping tales from our time in the Capitol, Robin throwing regular worried looks towards the screen, where his boy is still muttering. I mostly listen, though Glory does ask me about some of my mechanical work as his grandfather was a watch-maker. The ornate gem-encrusted sort, but the internals are no different to any other. Glory himself makes little clock-work toys as his talent, and promises to bring some along next year to show me.

Olivia joins us shortly after lunch, fresh from another interview about Tansy. Whisper arrives a little later to spell Robin, tag-teaming like Cupros and I have been so that someone stays fresh.

Two of the non-mentor victors start a game of cards with Vikus, and Glory wanders over to join them. I grab the notepad from our booth and sketch idly. I don't realize I'm humming under my breath until I hear Whisper take up the counterpart tune. When I look at her she gives me that sly smile and rises from the couch, stretching like a cat before heading to the food platters. Unconsciously I shudder. Of all the victors I've met, she makes me the most uncomfortable.

I go back to drawing until the couch jumps, and a thick magenta boot kicks the notepad out of my hands. Carmenius again, smirking gleefully.

"Your boy got lucky before, but he's about to get what's coming."

Sure enough the Careers have looped back towards the waterhole. This time Elmett doesn't see them until it's too late. He tries to run, but they're much faster, much fitter and better fed, and they rapidly make up ground.

He's smart enough to realize this and turns to catch his breath before his last stand. He has the rope curled in one hand, knife in the other, eyes flicking wildly between the advancing foes.

"Looks like you get another chance to prove your worth Halga," Flora says pointedly to the girl from Four.

"Leave off her," her district partner snaps as he settles his spear and knife. Malachite puts a hand on Four's chest and nods at Halga. "No, Flora's right. Her turn to pull her weight. Go on, bring him down. He's from Three, and we all know they only fight by stabbing people in the back. Once he's down I'll play with him for a bit before you off him."

I feel the bile rising in my throat. Beside me Carmenius laughs loudly.

While they talk, Elmett manages to take a few steps backwards, enough distance to bring his rope into play. Reluctantly Halga steps forward to face him, knife clasped in her shaking hand. He waits until she's five steps away before he swings the rope. She ducks, but he jerks it back and it tangles around her feet, tripping her over. Quick as a cat, he darts in with his knife, but the boy from Four jumps in to help, and the pair go down in a flurry of limbs and a spray of bright blood.

A cannon fires. Neither of them moves. Finally Brutus steps forwards and separates the two out. Four has a knife embedded under his jaw. Elmett groans, and when Four's body is dragged away, we can all see the blade buried in his groin. When he sees Brutus looming over him he forces himself to curl up and drags the knife free, screaming from the pain. He screams again when Brutus stamps on his hand, fracturing his long, delicate fingers around the hilt.

As he writhes I can see the spreading pool of blood around his waist, bleeding out, but too slow to avoid the threatened fate. Brutus stomps again, this time on his face, shattering the lenses in his glasses and awkwardly bending the wire frames. His moan chokes off as he coughs blood, his face a mess of red and tiny glass shards.

Malachite kneels beside him and he spits his blood in the face of the boy from One. One replies by slashing across his face, taking off a chunk of his already broken nose. I clap a hand over my mouth and shudder. The next cut traces down the side of his face, along his jaw. He writhes suddenly, violently, and the blade slips down into his throat. Malachite yells in shock as his own face is coated red, and by the time he clears his eyes the cannon has fired once more.

One more clever boy's potential wasted by the Games. I slowly unclench my right fist, absently noting the broken pen and blue ink staining my palm. My other hand stays over my mouth until I'm sure I won't be sick.

"I wasn't done," mutters Malachite on the screen. "DAMNIT!"

He kicks Elmett's body in frustration, jolting free the broken glasses. Brutus stoops beside him with a sneer as he scoops up Elmett's knife. Without warning the massive boy from Two turns and stabs Halga, who had just untangled herself from the weighted rope. She falls and the third cannon fires.

"What the hell?" Zia yells at him, and he grins condescendingly back.

"She wasn't any use to us. Only kept her 'round for Jonah's sake. He's dead now so there was no point keeping her."

"And you think you can just decide that without asking the rest of us?" Zia snaps back, drawing her sword.

"Yes, I can," he tells her, drawing his own blade. Both Flora and Malachite step back, their own weapons in hand. All four of them are glancing between each-other now, eyes asking 'do we do this now?'

No-one moves until Brutus laughs and lowers his sword. The other three relax and he pounces, striking out and slashing his sword at Zia's chest. Except she's faster than that and he only grazes her. Then the melee is on.

The Career victors in the lounge whoop and cheer at the four-way fight, and even the ones from One boo when Malachite breaks and runs, bleeding from his arm and side.

Zia drives her sword through Flora's stomach, then runs as well, in the opposite direction. Brutus bellows and chases after her, though she proves to be faster and gets enough of a lead that he eventually stops running to treat the cut down his leg.

Flora is left lying in the grass beside three bodies, a sword through her belly.

There's silence in the Viewing Hall until Toria from Two says, "Well shit."

A few of the Victors and Escorts laugh and a low murmur of conversation returns.

The boot prods me again. I turn and glare at Carmenius.

"Told you he'd die."

"He took down your…your…"

Carmenius' face flickers at this, and he sneers back, "My boy died fighting. Yours died a pathetic, crying mess. Like every tribute you will ever mentor. Your whole district is pathetic. In fact-Owwww!"

He yelps as Cupros, who I had seen earlier hovering around the booth, grabs him from behind by the hair, savagely twists his ear and shoves him forward off the couch.

"Get out."

Carmenius unceremoniously picks himself up and dusts down his waistcoat. "How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you touch me? I'll-"

Morstan Wake, the male mentor from Four steps between Carmenius and Cupros, also glaring at his Escort.

"Get. Out. Now."

Carmenius goes.

Morstan watches him leave, then turns to us and says, "I need a drink. Jonah was a decent lad. Too decent, and it got him killed. Got your decent lad killed too, though he died bravely."

"Your boy died defending the girl. Can't ask for more honorable than that. Better luck next year," Cupros says with a nod.

"Better luck next year," Morstan replies, and leaves, glowering Denissa in tow.

Glory Winchester trails over in their wake to also offer his condolences, as it was technically his boy with the kill on Elmett.

I'm glad to see that none of the mentors gloat over their tribute's kills. After all, we've all been there. We all do understand.

The commentators appear on-screen to discuss all the big, exciting happenings from day seven. Behind me Cupros sighs.

"It was a long shot, but he had a chance." He checks his watch and grunts. "It'll be interviews all night long, then I'm going to go get drunk. Again. Don't wait up."

"I….won't," I say, though I expect any sleep I get tonight will be broken and filled with dreams of the dead. One in particular.

Gloria catches me in the hall, all flustered that she missed the terrible moment as she was busy getting her hair done for a party tonight. A party she's still going to, and didn't Elmett do well to come tenth overall? All very exciting for her first Games, though she hopes next year will be better. Anyway, she'd better be going or she'll be late.

I don't strangle her, or hit her, or even attempt to stammer out a cutting remark to her retreating back.

Instead I go curl up in a corner of my bed, let the tears flow, and sing to myself until my eyes close.


	13. Chapter 13

The next five days pass in a blur. I catch bits and pieces of the Games, which are showing everywhere: A replay of the other tributes' reactions to the death photos on Deadly Day Seven. Jessi grins when she sees two dead Careers. Tansy and Osbern look thoughtful. Robin's boy cries when he sees his district partner.

Flora finally bleeds out ten hours after she's wounded. Her mentor Toria sends her a parachute with medicine but she isn't able to remove the blade from her stomach. Malachite stumbles across the boy from Nine, but fails to kill him and little Kern flees. The boy from One is rewarded with a tussle with one of the tawny lions roaming the plains. The big cat wins, and I can hear Glory ranting about useless spoiled brats from three stories up.

Osbern finds himself stampeded by a herd of black and white striped horses. Zebras, apparently. He tries to catch one with his lasso and fails. Not long after, wild dogs start herding him towards Jessi's location.

Dido calls to say a brief hello, and to inform me that she will probably be back for next year's Games after Marco's atrocious efforts at dressing Allasan. Damascus Riley calls me back down to the Wisteria Street workshop to examine the new prototype engine they've decided on. I can't help but be pleased at the increase in lift efficiency produced by my suggestions. It's a nice reminder that there are other important things to consider in the Capitol besides death.

Brutus finally tracks down Zia, who doesn't last long without her sword. Robin's boy Kern comes across Tansy sleeping, and seems a lot less troubled about killing her now. When they show a close-up of his face, I can see the ragged signs of the monster underneath. Like Sparrow in my games, he seems to have cracked slightly, muttering to himself and giggling at odd moments while he steals her few supplies.

On day ten, Kern's erratic wandering takes him towards Jessi's waterhole. He screams incoherently when he sees her and tries to jump her from behind. She catches his arm and slings him over her shoulder, down into the water below. The muddy tussle ends with a cannon and his drowned body floating to the surface.

Clara and Perry drag me out to lunch again, and we watch with the rest of the café as Brutus faces off with the lion that killed Malachite. He takes a few scratches and a shallow bite to his arm, but is victorious in the end. Osbern receives a similar visit from a pair of younger beasts. His weapon of choice—a long spear—sees one dead, the other fleeing without them landing a blow on him.

The Gamemakers give them all time to recover, and I join a larger than average crowd in the Viewing Hall for day thirteen of the Games. Like me, many of the others have a feeling that today will be the day it's all over.

It's unusual for only one of the three remaining tributes to be a Career, and even less usual for all three to have similar odds of winning. My personal bet is on the boy from Two, though I'd rather see either of the others win out.

Herds of grazers and small packs of hunters slowly force the final three together, and around mid-morning the first of the inevitable meetings finally happens.

Osbern and Jessi circle one-another cautiously, mock-politeness in their conversation as they ask how the other is doing. Finally he sighs and says, "Well I s'pose we should get down to it."

"I suppose we should," she replies, and they both move in.

I wish I could shout to them, just team up and take out Brutus first. My subconscious powers of thought clearly don't work, and the two begin an unexpectedly ferocious fight. Jessi is nimble and prepared to kill, Osbern is big and strong, but still hesitant. He hasn't spilled blood yet these Games, and seems even more reluctant to strike out at a girl.

It gets them both killed in the end, her knife entering the base of his spine, causing his arm to jerk the razor-sharp metal edge of his spear up under her ribs. They both fall apart, bleeding heavily, and their cannons fire within minutes of one another, leaving Brutus from Two, nearly a mile away, as the victor. He doesn't look happy when the trumpets blare, and yells at the hovercraft that comes to collect him that he was cheated of his glorious final fight.

We all turn to look at Vikus, who shrugs and says "He still thinks it matters. He'll learn." The older man from Two frowns as the cameras show Brutus punch the metal wall of the hovercraft in anger, leaving a visible dent

"I hope he learns," he adds softly as he rises to shake hands with Boyd and Abram before heading out the door.

~xXx~

Apart from a few cuts and bruises , the half-healed broken nose, and two broken fingers from punching the hovercraft, Brutus has no other injuries. He went into the Games prepared to fight and kill. The blood on his hands doesn't bother his mind, or so he says. As such the Games viewing takes place two days after they pull him out of the arena. I sit with the other mentors as we watch our new victor watch the Games. He gloats whenever there is a kill, raises a fist to egg on the cheering crowd during the Career-pack fight, and when he kills Zia and the lion, and doesn't scowl too much as the remaining tributes take each-other out.

As neither of our tributes made the top eight, we're not required at the Victory Banquet. I catch Clara, Perry, Gamicus and Royan for a late dinner at Perry's favorite seafood place. They're going out to one of the Games parties after, and invite me to come along. I consider drowning out the night in a haze of alcohol and noise, but decide it's probably not the best idea. I tell them I have to get up early, and escape back to the Training Center. It's quiet and wonderfully peaceful.

I can hear Cupros snoring already, the door to his room slightly ajar. Someone's got the right idea. I'm not quite sleepy enough yet to do the same, though I am feeling a bit wrung out as I often do after being out in the city with people. I slump into the couch and kick off the toe-pinching shoes with a sigh of relief. As I stretch out, I hear a soft clink from the supposedly empty tribute rooms.

Probably an Avox cleaning up, I tell myself after a moment of panic, though why they would be doing it now and not tomorrow once we've all left...

I force myself to stand, shoe in hand as I quietly wander over, and nearly run into Lorcan in the doorway. His arm reaches out to catch me as I fall and I grab his shirt-front for balance.

"Sorry, sorry," he says quickly as he steadies me back upright. He holds up his other hand triumphantly, showing me a shiny airbrush head, one of his favorite tools for painting designs on nails.

"Must have rolled under the bed. I thought I hadn't brought it since we didn't end up using it for the interviews, but couldn't find it at home. I thought I would have one last look here before my pass expired for the year."

Makes sense. Suddenly I remember the last time I spent some time with Lorcan, a few months back when I passed out drunk on his shoulder and he took me home. We haven't really had a chance to talk during the Games. Not that I do talking well anyway. Or that I really wanted to talk to him more in particular, though he is the best of the prep team members for a chat.

He seems to notice how close we're standing and flushes slightly, stepping out into the corridor to get a bit of space. "Anyway I should be going I guess. It was good to see you, and I'll catch you next year, or maybe see you out again."

He pauses at the door. "Unless you want me to stay? For a little bit I mean."

I push aside the part of me that just said I didn't want to talk to him. "Coffee?" I ask, and a slow smile creeps over his face. "Sure," he says. "One coffee, then I'll get going."

I'm not sure if he's telling me or himself. Maybe he's not sure either. I use the drinks machine in my room, and bring the steaming mugs out to the lounge. In the distance we can see the fireworks starting to go up at the Victory Banquet. I can't remember if there were fireworks for me last year. Maybe they just like Brutus better.

"I've heard he's a bit of an asshole," Lorcan says, nodding in that direction. "Apparently he tried to grope Imelia while she was prepping him for the stage tonight. I mean there's nothing wrong with a bit of a cuddle, but Mel's more into women than men, and he wasn't good at hearing no. At least that's what she said."

Ugh. I can think of a few grabby people I've met in the Capitol. I imagine it wasn't my looks they were going for, just my status. Brutus is welcome to them, and it sounds like they might be well matched. Lorcan shifts in his seat slightly and his leg brushes against mine. The warmth startles me for a second then becomes comfortable. I don't move away. The airbrush head is sitting on the table in front of us, and gives me an idea.

"So," I say, "Airbrush. I could make...make...you a better...one."

He raises an eyebrow and the uncertain smile becomes a challenging grin. "Oh really? Better than this little beauty?"

"Much better," I tell him. "Multi-cartridge for different colors, longer and finer nozzle, better grip. Would go for longer before it needed a break."

His eyes widen slightly and he licks his lips before carefully answering, "Just the things every man wants."

I realize he's flirting with me. Even worse, I realize it sounds like I started it. There's just one out.

"Every man wants...wants to be a...be a...different...color?"

As soon as I'm not talking about work, the speech gaps are right back. He laughs.

"Honey, this is the Capitol. Different color is just the start."

The warmth of his leg is sending tingles up mine. I decide that maybe I like him flirting with me a little and try to surreptitiously move closer. Now it's his turn to freeze for a second, then he slowly, cautiously reaches out his arm along the back of the couch and lets his fingers brush my right shoulder. When I don't complain he draws me closer so that my head is once again resting on his shoulder. He looks down at me with a lazy grin. "As I said before, nothing wrong with a bit of a cuddle. Though I know you don't like people touching you much. Let me know and I'll move."

His fingers brush up and down my shoulder again, and I shiver but it's a good shiver.

"You're fine," I say quietly, for the first time in three weeks glad that Beetee isn't here. "I trust you."

I let my arm slide across so that my hand is resting on his stomach. It's very comfortable. So comfortable I could probably fall asleep like this. I'd never hear the end of it from Cupros if he woke before me, especially if he told anyone. I sigh regretfully, and Lorcan echoes it. "I should probably go," he says, though he makes no move to get up.

"Probably, in case Cupros..." My fellow victor gives a nasally snore through the open door, but Lorcan nods.

"He'll wake at some point, and it might not look great. I don't want to ruin your reputation and I've heard people in the districts take this sort of thing more seriously."

He sits up with a groan and I push myself away, telling myself I didn't want any more than this anyway. He stands and stretches so that his shirt lifts and I catch a glimpse of his pale skin and a flash of gold tattoo. He grins again when he sees me looking and reaches over me for the airbrush head on the table, his arm gently brushing my hair.

"Maybe I'll show you my tattoos another time." I hate that I blush, and pretend to glare.

"I...uh..."

He gives me a reassuring smile.

"We'll see I guess. If you are ever around and bored or lonely, feel free to look me up."

I stand to walk him to the door, even though he can let himself out just fine. It doesn't feel right to just let him walk away. We both stifle a laugh at another of Cupros' squeaky snores and he turns to face me one last time before leaving. "You know, I'm kind of glad Beetee didn't come. I would have never been able to do this otherwise."

Before I can say a word he leans down and presses his lips to mine, and only because I've done this once before do I manage not to squeak and fall over. He draws away and tips his fingers to his short blonde fringe and gets to the lift before I think of anything to say. Not that it would be a good thing to say, that he's too good looking for me. Or too tall. Too Capitol.

I can't help it. I like him just a little bit. I'm not the sort of girl who moons over pretty boys, never have been. Why is it that in the Capitol I find my emotions flip-flopping like a bit of foil in the wind? Suddenly I can't wait to get home, where no-one will confuse me like they do here.

~xXx~

Father and Ezra meet us at the train station. I can see Allasan's family, who I spoke to on the phone after she died, waiting by the end carriage for a pine box I really don't want to think about. The other group must be Elmett's family. His parents and his brother and sister Wills and Soni, their tears visible from here. I'm not sure I can talk to them. Ezra puts his arm around my shoulder, and hoists my larger bag as he leads me towards the bus stop. My mind jumps back to last night, when the arm around my shoulder had a very different meaning, and I stumble slightly.

"Easy Ress," Ezra murmurs as he catches my fall. I can't count the number of times he's caught me tumbling while I've been lost in daydreams as a kid. He'll make a great father once the baby comes. A baby that will one day grow up and be in the reaping, and might get called up just because they're related to me, just like Seeder's niece. I stumble again, and this time he stops until he's sure I'm steady.

"You don't know when it will hit you," I hear Cupros say from behind. "She's done well so far. It'll pass in time."

He thinks my mind is still on the tribute I've already left behind. For a second I feel guilty, then I let just a little bit of the monster inside me peek through to swallow up the guilt. It's better behaved if I let it out every now and then and I don't want to trip over again.

"Well, once you get home and have a shower and a good rest you'll be better," Ezra says as we reach the stop. "I should probably mention that Malcy fell down the stairs just before we left. Nothing serious, just put his tooth through his lip, but that's where Mother and Balia are. Now wouldn't it be nice if my siblings didn't all walk around with their heads in the clouds, falling over?"

He grins, and I manage to smile back. If the baby is born safely, we have at least twelve years before we have to worry. Even then, they might not target him or her. Everything might be ok. It will just be some other child in the pine box.

I let the monster out a bit more, _just for the ride home_ , I tell it sternly. No more morbid thoughts until I'm back with the people I love most.

"How's Beetee?" Cupros grunts as we step off the bus and start the hike up the dirt road to the Victor's Village.

"Better," Father says. "Much better. Furious with himself for letting it happen, of course, but he's all but recovered."

Sure enough, he's out waiting for us. Pale, a little shaky and seriously underweight, he at least sounds like his normal self again as he apologizes to both of us. Cupros just grunts and stomps back towards his own house, ready for some peaceful solitude. I give Beetee my nicest smile, and reach out and squeeze his arm to let him know the apology wasn't necessary and all is fine. He nearly jumps out of his skin, and I berate myself for forgetting I'm not the only one who doesn't like being touched. Usually.

I thought home was where I didn't have to worry about any of this. I shake my head, and go inside my own house, leaving the door open for Beetee to follow or not as he likes. Malcy is propped up on the couch in the lounge, an ice cube wrapped in a bit of cloth pressed on his swollen lip. Balia flings herself across the room to hug me, then pulls me over to Malcy so our little brother doesn't try to get up.

"Wireff? Mouff hurt. Fee?"

He lifts away the cloth, and for a moment there is blood everywhere in my mouth, down my throat, drowning me, choking me. I shake it away. Just a bad memory and a split lip.

Balia takes his hand and presses the cloth back on. "Silly billy. Put the ice back and it won't hurt as much. Now, keep it on for another five minutes and I'll sing you another song. Ok?"

He nods, his tousled curls bouncing up and down with his head, and I sit down next to him, letting Balia curl against my legs as she starts singing about little children going bump out of bed. As always, her voice helps bring me and my wild thoughts home.


	14. Chapter 14

It takes me a few weeks to get back into my normal routine. For a start, school is out for two months of early summer, so there's no daily walk. I give it a bit of time before I start my cemetery wanderings again. This time three of the flowers stay in the tribute cemetery. Bright red for Stuvek. Soft pink for Allasan, like the silk dress she changed into on the train. Creamy white for Elmett. Plain and unassuming, though when you look closer you can see a ring of faint purple spots hidden inside.

Deeper pink roses for Grandma Tolsey and Stata, and a funny shaped yellow and orange flower for Wiran. My basket is empty after his grave, and I make the walk back feeling a little guilty that there aren't more flowers to share around.

My first trip back to the Capitol ends up being cancelled because Clara has a field trip for her architecture class. A journey to one of the old cities, one where the population was wiped out by sickness and riots rather than bombs, to draw the old buildings and discuss their flaws. I'm quite glad to have an extra month to catch myself at home before returning to the emotionally stirring Capitol.

After that first day, Beetee and I fall back into our easy friendship and eventually everything settles down to the level of normal I had before the Games. I call Dido to have a nice talk, and try to subtly ask for birthdays for the entire prep team. She pointedly mentions Lorcan's first, in early September. Plenty of time to make that new airbrush for him with all the added features. Marius' birthday actually comes first, in late July, while Juliette is in November. I make Marius a little hopping frog robot after I remember him telling me about his toy frog collection, then get down to work on the airbrush. I also get a calendar from the bookshop and add all the dates on as reminders.

Beetee seems a bit bemused when I tell him who I'm making the gifts for since he doesn't remember me being particularly close to any of my prep team. I try not to blush, I really do. I'm not sure if he sees it, but if he does it won't take him much effort to work out which one I'm most interested in. I'm very glad when he stops asking questions and goes back to puttering in silence with his pin-head light bulbs.

I take the robot frog with me for my July trip to the Capitol, and have it sent from there to Marius. He sends a note of thanks back to the Spire saying he simply adores it and thank you so much to me for thinking of him. I go out to the clubs again on Saturday night with the whole crowd. This time we are party-hopping, staying at each place long enough for only one or two drinks before we move to the next. One alcoholic drink at each and then only water is my rule again. With a walk in the outside air as we go from bar to bar, I manage to stay more or less un-drunk. Tipsy, according to Royan, who lends an arm to lean on as the night wears on into morning. He too is limiting his drinks, though I suspect that has as much to do with a shallow wallet as wanting to stay sober.

On the Sunday five of us girls go to a fancy bath-house for saunas and massages. After, Odelia, Clara and I head up one of the taller towers and spend the afternoon sketching the view below.

It's blissfully peaceful, and nice to know that the Capitol isn't always confusing.

August passes in a rush of warm weather and days in the workshop. We all spoil Malcy when he turns seven as he gleefully devours his chocolate cake. We try to spoil Cupros too, after Balia digs his birthday out of my _History of the Hunger Games_ book. He allows dinner and cake, then grumps at us until we leave him to his solitude. By mid-month my airbrush is done, and I take Beetee's advice and file a patent before giving it away as a gift. I make sure to etch a unique design into the one for Lorcan, so that even if other people eventually end up with them his will still be special. Beetee rolls his eyes visibly at this. I glare at him until he backs off.

As the month winds down, Beetee tells me that he'll be along for my next weekend to the Capitol. For a second I'm angry, since I'd planned on catching up with Lorcan at some point, and don't need a protective big-brother figure hanging around. Then I realize if that was the reason he was going, there is no way he could have got permission to travel.

"Heavensbee filed the paperwork himself," Beetee says as he polishes a curved piece of metal. "Apparently they are completely stumped on this one. He and I have been communicating back and forth, but I think I really need to be there and see it for myself. Don't worry, I won't get in the way of you and your...friends."

It also helps, I realize later, that we'll be on separate floors of the Victor's Spire. It's not like he'll have cameras in my room or anything. And even if he did, too bad. Just because he wants to play big brother, it doesn't mean I always need a mentor looking out for me.

I'm much more charitable in my thinking when I have someone else to talk to on the boring train journey. Terry meets us at the station as always, and offers to take Beetee along to the Spire as well. Beetee gives our driver a long, measured look and glances at me before saying yes. _Looking for a reaction_? I wonder as we separate at the lift, him on the 7th floor while I head on up to the 10th. Brutus' name has been added to the door next to mine, though I expect he won't be back in the Capitol until after the Victory Tour. I wonder idly how many sponsors he had, and whether they expect him to come entertain them on a regular basis. Then I realize, at least in his case, I don't care.

Beetee calls on the internal phone line asking if I mind if he comes up to join me for a bit. I'm half tempted to say no, I'm busy, but really I don't have any plans for the evening since Clara has her architecture class until late on Fridays. He glances around the place, almost as if he suspects there's someone hiding in the bedroom then relaxes at the table as I lay out the plate of sandwiches from my fridge.

"I'm going to head over to Heavensbee's first thing in the morning," he says as he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "I probably won't see you around much between now and the train home, though if you need anything..."

"I'll let you...you..."

"Know," he finishes for me as he picks up one of the sandwiches. "Do you know what Clara has planned for you this weekend?"

Beyond the standard Saturday night club-hitting, I don't have a clue. "I'll be late in tomorrow...night," I say carefully, not entirely sure of his opinion of sixteen-year-old daughters of important people sneaking in to clubs. "Otherwise..." I shrug rather than trying to explain in words.

"What do you normally do on your Friday nights?" he asks, and I shrug again.

"Relax," I tell him bluntly. "While I can."

He smiles a little and stares out the window towards the twinkling city lights.  
"Did you have anything planned for tonight other than relaxing?"

Damn him and his intuition. I grab the last sandwich and take a bite, chewing until I'm sure of myself. "No. Just relaxing. Like usual."

"What about that birthday present?"

"I'll send it...tomorrow I...I...guess."

"You weren't going to deliver it in person?" he asks with a small smile, now trying to catch my eye. I eat another few bites of sandwich until I can meet his look.

"No. Just send it with...with...a...a...card."

I don't mention that the card will wait until I know which club we're going to be at tomorrow night. Beetee doesn't need to know that. Suddenly I wonder if this is what Clara feels like, trying to sneak out under her parents' noses to see Perry. I never had any reason to try and lie to my parents about seeing a boy. No boy I ever knew back home interested me this way. Apparently Beetee decides he's teased me enough and thanks me for the sandwiches before heading back to his own room.

~xXx~

We spend most of Saturday's day at Odelia's workshop, where she teaches Clara and me a few basic glass-blowing tricks. Clara is a natural, but my breath catches too much in my throat, a hold-over from the punctured lung that will probably never heal, and Odelia snatches the pipe away before I inhale molten glass. After that I stick to playing with heated lumps, using tweezers and a blowtorch to shape fine, spindly swirls.

Odelia lends me a dress far more revealing than anything I would choose for myself to wear out on the town so that I don't have to go back to the Spire to change. They both help do my make-up as my slight hand tremor tends to pop up whenever I put things near my eyes, and Clara helps pin up some of my hair while Odelia does hers in a fancy braid.

By the time we get to the clubs the night is well underway. The first place we go to is so crowded that the press of bodies combined with the summer heat leaves me feeling nauseous. After one drink the girls agree and we move on three doors down to a place with fountains of chilled drinks that you fill your own cup from. After two I stick to water as usual, though the potency and the warm weather still leave me feeling light headed. Eventually Clara gets bored and we move again, this time to a dark underground area with ultraviolet lighting that makes all the white and fluorescent colors light up. A couple of young men offer to buy us all drinks, bright green and smoking, and after only a few sips my vision starts to go hazy. The flickering lights seem brighter and pulsing, and the music seems to be pounding in time with my accelerated heart beat. I grab the bar counter as my stomach seems to drop away momentarily. A strange sound out of time with the surrounding beat drags me back to the present. Clara's laugh as she grabs one of the men by the hand and drags him out to the dance floor. Odelia takes the other and follows, swaying in time with the pulse. I manage to hide in the shadows under a strange twisted metal sculpture for a bit while they flirt and dance until the swirly, surreal quality of the world around me fades a little.

The two men seem to be trying to hold on to the girls, but eventually Odelia slips free and heads in my direction, nodding to the stairs. The night air doesn't clear my head as much as I would like while we wait for Clara, who eventually joins us.

"Honestly," she says as she fixes her mussed hair, "One drink and they think we'll stay all night?"

Odelia shrugs as she sticks her hand out for a cab. "My one was pretty cute."

Clara rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well my one smelled like he'd sampled all of Theonara's Palace at once."

I vaguely recognize the name of the shop as a perfume seller that Clara pointedly snubbed on one of our shopping jaunts as a sleek black car pulls up to the curb.

We pile into the cab and Clara gives directions for a bar a good ten blocks away, where we had arranged to meet the boys at nine. The clock on the dashboard of the cab says 21:20, but everyone in the Capitol seems to be casual about being on time. I just hope that if Lorcan got my message and did decide to come out to meet us, he knows how little punctuality matters here.

I spot Gamicus, or at least his tall hair (blue fading into orange, like the blowtorch I was using earlier) across the crowded room, and we weave through the press of people to their corner. Clara manages to jump on Perry's back without warning and they charge onto the dance floor, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as they join the swaying press of bodies.

Gamicus throws an arm around both mine and Odelia's shoulders and leads us to the bar. I try to beg off anything alcoholic as I'm still feeling funny from the last drink, but Gamicus has none of it. Whatever he gives me is bright purple and tingles down my throat as I swallow. It doesn't help with the slightly blurry quality to my surroundings; if anything it makes everything seem more surreal. On the upside, it also seems to dull my panic when people brush past me.

When he leads us out to the dance floor I don't resist and join with the rippling motion of moving people. Odelia drifts off to the arms of a tall, well muscled guy whose tattoos appear to be glowing. Gamicus mostly stays by me, though his attention is on pretty much everyone else around him. A young man with a mass of long dark curls bigger than my own presses up against me and unusually I don't flinch away. His touch feels strange, like he's not real, like nothing is real and I lean against him, swaying with the beat for some time.

Finally he moves on and another pair of hands replaces his. Another man's, I'm pretty sure, long fingers and smooth nails, but too big and strong to be female. I lean back against the lithe body, about six inches taller than me and glance up. Lorcan grins down at me, his blond hair longer than I remember and spiked outwards at the fringe. His shirt is sleeveless and low-enough cut at the neck that I see more of his gold tattoos peeking out, bright against his pale skin.

He pulls me gently towards the edge of the dance floor and I follow, the room swaying slightly as I walk. An older man with stringy green hair reaches out to touch me as we pass him and I let his hand clasp my arm without reacting. He starts pulling me back until Lorcan shoves him away and puts his body between us. He pushes me forwards and turns me to face him once we reach the wall, peering into my eyes.

"Are you ok?" he asks, bending down to place his mouth right next to my ear so he doesn't have to shout over the music. Normally someone getting that close, especially someone I might have a bit of a thing for would send me reeling away but still I feel numb and hazy.

"Wiress? Are you still with me?"

That's right, he was talking to me. I lean into him and nod, not wanting to yell. He hesitates for a second then wraps his arms around me and pulls me in closer. We stand like that for minutes or maybe hours; my mind seems to have lost the ability to process time which should bother me but like everything else tonight, doesn't. Finally he leans down again and asks, "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?"

I nod again, then remember I should probably find Clara first. I step away from the warm circle of arms and look around, wobbling as the room seems to move again. All I can see is a wall of moving bodies flashing strange colors under the lights. Lorcan must realize what I'm trying to do and keeps his arm around me as he steers me back through the crowd towards the bar, where Odelia and her boy of choice are sharing something bright orange and bubbly from a large bowl. She grins and waves when she sees me and points to a corner near the door where Clara and Perry are wrapped around one another. Clara seems to have lost her jacket and her hair has drifted out of the fancy braid to fall all around her and Perry's faces.

I aim for the door and by the time we get near she has untangled herself and catches my eye past a clump of dancing women. She grins as well when she sees Lorcan's arm around me and gives me two thumbs up, nodding towards the door. I wave back and step out into a refreshing summer night breeze as the thrumming beat fades and the world stops swaying so much.

I hang on to Lorcan just in case as he waves for a passing taxi and helps me in when it comes. I relax against him as he gives directions to a block of apartments decorated with about a hundred paper lanterns. He grins as he helps me out of the car and pays the driver.

"Two of the kids who live down there brought some home from school last week and hung them up. Since then we've been competing to see who can make the best."

They do look pretty, the lights inside them flickering as the paper ripples gently from the wind. He leads me up a flight of stairs to the middle floor, to a bright green door ringed with blue, white and shiny silver paper structures, each cut out with delicate lace patterns and lit up by a tiny light bulb.

A gentle nudge draws my attention to the open door and I step inside, glancing around curiously at the interior. It's about half again as big as our old family unit was though this one is clearly designed for less people. One open door shows a small bedroom and I assume the closed door leads to a bathroom.

The rest of the space is filled with a small kitchen like the one in my Victor's unit in the Spire and a wide open lounge in front of a smaller television unit. The low table in-between is piled with sketch-books, fashion magazines and art supplies. A familiar box sits open in the middle and I spot the airbrush I sent earlier in the day out and assembled.

"Thanks for the early birthday present. It works great," Lorcan says behind me. "Much better than my old one, just like you said."

I turn to smile up at him, remembering our conversation in the Training Centre after the Games a couple of months back. I was so nervous then. Why does it feel different now?

Lorcan guides me gently to the couch and sits beside me, the warmth of his body flowing along my shoulder and leg where they press against me. I let him pull me to him, my head on his shoulder, arm across his chest. His fingers brush through my hair, working gently around the glittering pins.

When he turns my face up to his and kisses me I don't resist, and instead lean into him. He pulls back and looks into my face, shaking his head.

"Are you sure you're ok?"

I think about it for a second and nod. I'm not sure I am ok; my usual hesitancy has washed away from the heat and most likely whatever I've been drinking. If I was with someone I didn't know or didn't like it would be different and I'd drag free of this unnatural calm to push them away, I'm sure. But this is one of the few people whose company I honestly enjoy, and who I trust not to do me any harm. Maybe the haze of complacency is exactly what I needed to escape my usual panic at physical intimacy as he pulls me further into his arms.

~xXx~

I wake to the sounds of strange voices, children calling and laughing to one another amongst the patter of running footsteps. I try to sit up to look out the window but a warm weight across my hip stops me. Vague memories of the previous night stir in my mind as the arm flexes and pulls me back towards the warm body curved behind me. I feel a brief moment of panic; whatever it was that dulled my reactions has clearly worn off, but relax a little when I hear his voice.

He lets me pull away slightly and compose myself, yawning and stretching his long, pale frame until the blanket starts sliding off the bed, forcing him to roll after it to stop it escaping. He doesn't quite manage to stay balanced and teeters on the edge of the bed for half a second before crashing to the floor. Before I can react he sits up, pushing away the sheets now resting on his head and rubbing his shoulder.

"As you can see, I'm exceptionally graceful in the morning," he says with a rueful smile, his cheeks pink. Draped in blankets with his hair sticking in all directions he looks about ten years old. I can't help laughing as I crawl over and help pull him back up onto the mattress. The motion triggers the pounding headache I often suffer after a night of drinking and I sit back with a groan.

Lorcan frowns slightly and leans over to the bedside cupboard, rummaging through the drawers and returning with a packet of white capsules. He pops one and dry-swallows it, and hands me the packet while he staggers to his feet and leaves the room. I try to focus on the writing on the box but it makes the headache worse so I fumble blindly to release one of the tablets.

Strong fingers wrap over mine and help pop one free, and I open my eyes again to see Lorcan offering a large glass of water, which I reach for gratefully. He smiles back and drinks half of his own before upending the remains over his head.

"Now I'm awake," he says as he crawls back over to my side, pulling one of the sheets over to drape across both of us as he rearranges the pillows and settles down beside me. I finish my water and close the gap between us, curling my head into the curve of his neck as his arm slides comfortably around my shoulders. Slowly the pounding in my head abates and I start to feel more aware. I stretch out and he lets me free again to do so, watching me with a strange smile that turns to a slight frown as I wince.

"Are you hurt?" he asks gently and I think for a moment before shaking my head.

"Just…" It's more a dull ache than anything else, not exactly pain. Sort of like the ache I had after the first time I spent half a day walking around our District cemetery. Technically sore, but not unpleasantly so.

He takes me at my word and smiles again, grinning more when I stretch out my fingers and start tracing the fine golden patterns that run from his shoulders, down his ribs and criss-crossing his chest and back to his thighs. He takes my hand and turns slightly, pressing my fingers to the back of his left shoulder, and says "I had this one added after your Games. I hope you don't mind."

One quick glance is enough to recognize the familiar hexagon, and I trace the twisting lines inside it—all the major pathways mapped out just like they were in my head.

"We all thought you were brilliant once we realized you had the arena mapped in your head," he says softly, shivering slightly as my fingers trace the path of my desperate flight from the hunting Career pack along the golden pathways.

He throws me a cheeky grin over his shoulder that makes my stomach flutter as he adds, "I've always found smart girls sexy."

I blush and pull my hands away. I'm still not sure what he sees in me to want to be more than friends, and I certainly don't match his level in looks.

"You are pretty, you know. I know you don't think so, but I'm a hair and smile person. And I mean it when I say I like smart girls. Always have, no matter what my friends said."

He reaches out to me this time and runs his hand through my hair, and even without the dulling intoxicant it feels comfortable and safe.

"To tell you the truth, I used to be…well…I wasn't exactly a great catch in school, so it's not like I had any chance with the really attractive girls anyway," he says with a rueful smile. I raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced.

"My mother was a pastry chef, and she used to bring me home spare ones that weren't sold. I was pretty chubby, and I was always reading or drawing rather than talking to people. My brother used to tease me, threaten to ship me off to District Ten to be made into bacon."

"What…"

"What changed? I went to an art show, body art, in my last year of school and met the most gorgeous girl I'd ever seen. She was only a year older than me and easily the best of the artists there, and she was nice and actually talked to me. Though I think she was just taking pity on the fat kid who had no friends. I was too scared to ask her out, but I decided if I got in shape and focused more on my art then maybe I'd have a chance, so I started eating better and working out."

"And?" I ask, still not entirely sure whether to believe him.

He laughs, though I feel his fingers, still wrapped in my hair, tense against the back of my neck for a moment.

"Three and a half months I waited. Must have dropped thirty pounds, cut and dyed my hair like the cool kids and memorized every art book in the school library before I worked up the nerve. Turned out she was already engaged to a man nearly ten years older. She didn't even recognize me."

I look him up and down, trying to picture him as a shy, chubby boy. I mustn't look convinced because he scowls for a second, then leans over the edge of the bed and rummages around underneath, coming back up with a leather-bound book.

"Here," he says as he flips it open and starts flicking through the pages. It's full of photos, bright glossy ones surrounded by abstract paper shapes and little blocks of words written in a flowing, curly style. "My mom made it for my birthday _last_ year," he says defensively as he flips to a page about two-thirds of the way in.

There's a headshot like they took for our Games photos at the top of the page surrounded by the words Lorcan J. Carlisle, Year 12, Austin Terrace. His face was definitely rounder and his hair fell in messy golden waves past his ears.

"I had them fix my teeth too," he says, tapping at the toothy smile in the next picture, him and two other boys draped in glittering robes holding candles. The next picture has him and one of the boys topless, their faces striped with red and yellow paint on either side of a wiry, dour-faced girl with a wreath of flowers in her hair. He wasn't exaggerating about the weight.

"That was during the 46th Games. Cordenia adored Whisper, though myself and Hadrian liked the guy from Seven better. I can't even remember his name now, though. Funny how that happens"

I turn the page to find something else to talk about and see more shots of him with his friends, with his family by the lake shore, standing beside several paintings and a strange sculpture, on a stage holding a bit of paper. Each successive one looks more like he is now. The next page has progressive shots of his tattoos.

"I liked myself a bit better by then, and discovered that girls liked me better too. I was dating a tattoo artist and she wanted someone to show off her newest idea. I wanted to impress her. I still see her around sometimes. She always has brilliant suggestions for the Games fashions, even if some of them are completely crazy."

His hand clenches tight again when he says this, and I'm almost unsurprised when I flip the next few pages and find pictures of a skinny woman probably in her late twenties holding a little baby girl. At least I assume it's a girl by the frilly dress and glitter shoes.

"Yours?" I ask and he nods, finger reaching out to brush the girl's face.  
"She'll be two in December," he says softly. "Isolda, her mum lets me spend one weekend with her every month. As I said, we still sort of get along, but we're never…you know…"

I can't imagine what it would be like to have family that's not actually family. Even my sister Pella has always been around, no matter how little we got along.

"I hope I'll get to see her more when she gets older. She's a bright little thing, clever like her mother."

"What's her name?" I ask as he brushes the picture one last time before folding the book shut.

"Portia. Portia Carlisle-Kent."


	15. Chapter 15

I make it back to the Spire before midday without running into Beetee or anyone else I know. There's a message from Odelia reminding me about lunch at one and I manage to get myself cleaned up and clear-headed and to the café only a few minutes late. She's already at the table and grins as I hand her the folded dress I'd borrowed the night before, passing back the bag with the outfit I left at her place.

"Good night?" she asks and I blush, making an answer unnecessary.

"My boy was a bit disappointing in the end. No stamina at all." She grins again at my discomfort and qualifies, "He passed out about five minutes after we got back to his place. Didn't even get his pants off. I pinched a few of his pills to sober up a bit and took a cab home."

"Clara?" I ask as the waitress comes over to take my order.

"No idea," she says with a frown, glancing around. "Usually she's the first one here to rub it in our faces that she can outlast the rest of us and still spring back fine."

We pick at a plate of sandwiches for forty-five minutes with the occasional burst of conversation, but she's quiet by nature and I'm me, and eventually we give it up as a bad job and head our separate ways. I consider trying to call Clara when I get back to the Spire, but the number I have is a general one for her house and I don't really want to catch either of her parents.

I end up dozing on the couch until a sharp rap on the door startles me awake. Beetee, his bag slung over one shoulder, other arm full of notebooks, ready to catch a ride back to the train station.

"Late night?" he asks as I blink at him blearily, smothering a yawn behind one hand.

I nod, not wanting to go into details. "I'll just grab…"

I gesture to my bedroom and hesitate at the look he gives me. A mixture of disapproval and something darker, almost angry flits over his face and he very deliberately looks away.

I back away into the bedroom and quickly grab up the books and clothes lying around the floor. I glance in the mirror on the back of the door and wince. My hair is all puffed up in a fuzzy tangle where I was leaning against the couch, there's fairly obvious dark bags and a smudge of make-up that must be water-proof still around my eyes and a fairly blatant red-purple mark just peeking out on my collarbone that Beetee obviously spotted.

I find a sweater with a more enclosed neckline and pull it on before heading back out to face him. He doesn't quite meet my eyes as he leads the way down and out to the waiting car.

The silence lasts until the train clears the Capitol outskirts. I nudge his arm gently and he jumps half a foot in the air, but stops glowering out the window.

"What did…" I gesture to the pile of papers stacked beside him that he usually would be telling me all about already.

He blinks for a few seconds and looks between the papers and me twice. "What did Heavensbee want? Oh nothing much, just a completely new high end control chip made by one of his competitors that he wants me to reverse engineer and retrofit to their entire hovercraft range."

He makes a small harrumphing noise and taps his fingers on the pile of notes. I know him well enough now to know that he secretly will enjoy the challenge, regardless of how much he complains.

"The problem he actually had me shipped out for, why their efficiency model didn't match their testing data was a bit easier. One of his workers stuck a decimal in the wrong place and none of them bothered checking the calculations by hand."

I smile and after a moment he smiles back. I hold my hand out and he passes me the pile of notes with almost no hesitation. Electronics is much more his thing than mine, but I give the circuit board sketches and photos a brief glance over before settling in to his neat, precise letters describing the functionality and assumed workings of this new, mysterious chip.

"I won't ask," he says after a few minutes, once again not meeting my eyes when I look up at him. "I won't ask, just…be careful Wiress. Please."

I give him a quick smile and nod, glad that I'm not going to have this conversation. "I will. I'm not a…a…a…" he frowns, apparently unable to finish this sentence and lets me do so on my own.

"Not a little…little girl anymore."

"No," he says strangely as I get back to his notes. "You're not."

~xXx~

School starts again for Balia and Malcy in the first week of September and my routine falls back to more normal. I make sure to wear closed-necked shirts until the mark on my collarbone fades. Beetee apparently doesn't say anything to anyone else because I get no funny looks or comments.

I don't hear anything from either Lorcan or Clara for most of the month, and spend my time working on a spherical robot that can roll itself around, with a control piece that always stays on the top of the ball. I shrug when Ezra, up for a visit asks what it's for, and when Beetee chimes in from his workbench that it doesn't need a purpose to be worth making I know we're back to normal too.

I finally get word about Clara on the last Thursday of the month, when her mother's secretary calls to tell me my September trip to the Capitol has been cancelled. Apparently Minister Redfern caught her daughter sneaking back in drunk and drugged at half-past four in the morning that night we were out and grounded her for a month. I'd been hoping to see Lorcan again, but manage to hide my disappointment as I tell my mother. We spend Friday night as a family at one of the restaurants in town eating spicy meat and dumplings.

On Monday a package arrives in the mail for me with no sender name. Inside is a set of fine artists' sketch books and a set of fancy ink pens all tied up with a gold ribbon. Lorcan clearly saw me looking at his drawings while he made me breakfast. I spend all day trying them out and even let Balia and Malcon have a go in the evening. Balia manages to spill ink all over her hand twice in her attempt to sketch my basket of flowers, ready and waiting for the next morning and gives up when she accidentally manages to smear it across her face. Malcy, his little face screwed up in concentration draws our house and family. The stick figures are even in size proportion and he continues onto another page with a squarish blob for his school and all his classmates.

"Which ones are your friends?" Balia asks after he finishes adding hair to the twenty-eight stick figures squished in two blotchy rows. He frowns and shrugs and makes a vague hand gesture before dropping the pen to play with one of her hair clips that's sitting on the table.

My sister gives me a worried look, but I'm not concerned. I know the answer to that one: none of them are friends the way she would think of them, but he still knows who they all are. Sometimes I think I'm more like my little brother than anyone else.

October comes roaring in with a week-long storm that makes me very glad we can now afford waterproof jackets and proper heating. A lightning strike knocks out the power to a dozen factories for two days and Beetee and I are both called in to help set up proper bypasses and temporary generators, and to work on something to prevent it happening again in the future. Beetee even manages to joke about being something of a lightning-rod expert, earning a laugh from Mayor Redden and some of the other engineers who would have paid attention during his Games, over fifteen years ago now.

My next Capitol trip is quite tame. Clara calls me on Friday night and the two of us catch a late night movie (some nonsense with robots and explosions that we both spend the two hours rolling our eyes at during the numerous inaccuracies and impossibilities). Saturday is another shopping jaunt, again with just the two of us, though she doesn't really seem engaged and only buys one new outfit. She's a lot quieter than usual and I wonder as we sit down at a salad bar for lunch if this is some hold-over from her grounding and likely argument with her mother.

She doesn't say anything to me about my disappearing with Lorcan, doesn't mention Perry at all (highly unusual, as he generally is the topic of every other conversation with her) and seems listless when I ask her what she wants to do for the afternoon and evening.

"We're not going out tonight, unfortunately," she says with a scowl as I leave a large tip for our waiter. "My mom confiscated all my fake IDs and told me if she catches me again she'll pull me from my architecture course. Same if she finds out I've seen Perry at all."

"So you haven't…"

"What?" she blinks, and a small smile flits across her face. "Oh, no, I have seen him. Just not as much as I want to, and I have to be sneaky about it. She even has someone watching his flat. Royan managed to warn me before they saw me though. He's another one my parents want me to stop spending time with, and they fired his brother Terry as a driver. Said he knowingly aided me in sneaking into the clubs."

"Well," I say, knowing full well that Terry had been her fake ID card supplier. She pulls a face at me.

"Anyway, Gammy and Roy and Helia have all been busy with Games stuff. You know, with the Quarter Quell coming up. The boys won't tell me anything about the arena on the handful of times I've been able to speak to them. And I have no idea what Helia's up to. She normally works for the Heavensbees but they're involved in building something big and difficult for the arena this year too."

She seems to realize that this isn't a good topic for me and pastes a smile on her face as she leads me down another street towards a string of jewelry shops. She picks up a bit more of her old chatty self as we try on increasingly ridiculous necklaces and jeweled headdresses and eventually talks me into getting my ears pierced. She adds a new piercing of her own in the top of her ear while I admire the glittering green stones embedded in my earlobes in the mirror.

We pass a tattoo parlor next, and though I know it's a joking suggestion my memory flashes back to tracing the golden lines on Lorcan's body and I blush. She notices and finally starts in on my last time here, slowly dragging out all the details over giant chocolate milkshakes and a long walk up and back along the memorial plaza.

As the sun starts setting I can hear the music from the various clubs in nearby streets start drifting up. Clara scowls again, her hands twitching, and reluctantly says she should probably go home early and show her mom what a good little girl she's being. She shoots me one last parting jab about giving me time to catch up with nameless blond cuties as we split and I do consider briefly trying to call up Lorcan. Last time it seemed so natural, but now, after nearly two months without contact I'm just not sure.

As I walk past one of the louder clubs I realize that I could go in by myself if I really wanted to and lose myself to the haze of noise and alcohol. I don't really like the thought of being alone though and as a cold breeze brushes through the street I decide a night of reading under a heating unit sounds perfectly fine.

~xXx~

Sunday buckets rain from dawn until I board the train back to Three. I spend the day with Clara and Odelia (the only one of Clara's good friends not currently on the banned list, though it was apparently a near thing) in one of the larger shopping malls, where they're sorting out Hallows Eve costumes for the upcoming holiday. We don't celebrate it at home, but here it seems to be a night of dressing up in sillier outfits than usual and eating candy. The two of them are planning on going to a scary movie marathon, though this seems to mostly be a cover for Clara to see her boyfriend as she figures they'll be harder to catch out in costumes in a dark theater.

Odelia apparently has some new boy she's meeting there too that doesn't have _her_ mother's approval either, though she won't say why. This is news to Clara who spends most of the afternoon trying to scavenge details out of her friend the same way she did about me and Lorcan the previous night. Odelia's more stubborn than I am though, and won't say anything more than he's older and has opened her eyes to a new way of seeing things. I cover my ears and beg her not to go into details, making both of them laugh and they spend the next hour trying to drag me into one of the "adult" shops. Since they're both still underage this doesn't go down well and the three of us end up running from a grumpy shopkeeper who threatens to call security if we keep bothering him. He apparently doesn't recognize me or Clara and we end up out in the street laughing uncontrollably and soaking wet from the rain.

I spend the next week in bed with a cold while my mother doses me with chicken soup and spicy vegetable dishes. I make sure to stay away from Laney even when I'm up and better as she's getting very close to her time. There's a lot of jokes about what they're going to call the baby, though Laney is determined that the child will be at least partially named after members of the family. After we try multiple combinations of bits of our names they settle on Lezan for a boy or Baliss for a girl. Balia, who has been reading every book she can find on babies and has been learning to knit to make clothes for her soon-to-be niece or nephew, is glowing nearly as much as my sister-in-law and the two spend the hours of Laney and Ezra's visits planning out the child's life.

I actually end up missing the birth as the Victory Tour rolls into town with the accompanying media circus and, as the immediately previous victor, my presence is required at both the rally and the dinner. Beetee comes along for support, though Cupros opts out after the presentation in the square, where Brutus gives an uninspired speech about his victory. He gives a brief nod to Elmett, who at least died fighting (and took one of their Career pack down with him), but his gloating battle cries earn him no friends from the tributes families, forced as always to the front of the crowd.

I see Elmett's younger sister Soni open her mouth at one point, possibly to shout something and her father quickly clasps a hand over her face to stop her. She scowls and glares at the gray concrete ground for the rest of the ceremony, and I wonder idly if I'll be mentoring her for the Quell next year. At roughly sixteen, above average height and angry she'd probably be a better bet than most of our district. I shiver and force myself to focus on Mayor Redden's droning reply thanking Brutus for his generosity towards our fallen tributes.

I end up stuck next to the brawny man from Two, and expect to spend the whole dinner dealing with his aggressive and obnoxious outbursts and, from what Lorcan told me, groping hands. To my surprise he actually treats me with a margin of respect. He doesn't try to touch me at all, doesn't bring up the death of my other tribute Allasan (possibly because he doesn't remember her at all) and after a few drinks cheerfully informs me that I count as a "proper victor" by his district's standards.

"I mean, yeah you went at him from behind and no-one from Two would ever do that, but he was bigger so I guess it's fair enough," he slurs at me over dessert. "But you finished him off with a weapon in your own hand and looked him in the eye as he died. That's what really counts."

I decide not to point out that by those standards he is not a "proper victor" as the last two tributes this year killed one-another off, and left him no-one to fight. He seems to hear it unspoken anyway and stabs at his cake with a fork for a few minutes before loudly announcing that electrocution doesn't count as a proper weapon and only a coward would kill people that way. Beetee just smiles vaguely on my other side and goes back to chatting with Mayor Redden's teenage son about VR games.

We both escape soon after the meal is finished, not wanting to stay after Brutus challenges his mentor Vikus to match him drink for drink. Ezra swings by the village the next afternoon to tell us all about how our newest victor managed to smash an antique wooden table and tore down one of the colorful tapestries in the Justice Building to wear as a cape during his drunken escapade. There's photos on the news to confirm this and a video clip of him and the daughter of one of our Capitol Liasons getting to know one-another quite well.

I don't follow the rest of the tour, trying hard not to think about how it's already half-way to the next Games and about how there will be two more (most likely) dead children in my nightmares soon. This year is probably going to be even worse as it's a Quell year, though we won't find out about what extra rules or twists they've added until February when the card is read.

I finally make contact with Lorcan when he takes me out to dinner on the Friday night of my November trip. He's friendly and talkative as always and is already working under Dido's instruction on designs for the next Games. My stylist will be back this year, which I guess means Marco will be relegated. I'm not too sad about this, though Lorcan does tell me that Marius has deserted us for the District One prep team. He doesn't know yet who the replacement will be, and one of his projects right now is interviewing people for the position.

My old escort Carmenius Fallow is still working for Four unfortunately and, as far as Lorcan knows, we still have the over-excitable Gloria Goldacre who, at least, isn't deliberately cruel or unkind to the tributes.

Lorcan takes me up on my offer to come back to the Spire, though we just end up sitting on the couch watching a silly gameshow which has the contestants compete against one another in tasks voted on by the audience. The final round has them all randomly paired up and working their way through a strange obstacle course, with the overall winners receiving a decent monetary prize and a funny gold crown. It's apparently become quite popular in the last two years and the host promises that the tenth run (scheduled for February) will be something special. I have a horrible sneaking suspicion that it will be something to do with the Games as the timing is right around the Quell Card reading.

Lorcan tells me apologetically that he can't stay as he has an early appointment with one of the prep-team hopefuls and gives me a brief kiss before leaving. It doesn't quite seem the same as last time though, and I suspect that our 'tragic long-distance romance' as Clara termed it isn't going to throw the stars out of orbit. Or any of the other bad clichés that heroines in Capitol movies tend to use. I still like him a lot, and I definitely enjoy spending time with him, but there's something missing, at least compared to what I've read about or seen between other couples. As long as he stays with the District Three prep team I'll be seeing him at least once a year anyway, and we can stay friends. The fact that I'm not heartbroken over this thought probably means it's for the best.

~xXx~

As a surprise, Clara got permission for me to join her architecture group on a field trip for the rest of the weekend. Along with two-dozen others, mostly boys my age or a little older, we travel to ruined city of St. Louis and spend most of the day examining the old, partially destroyed buildings and landmarks while the teacher describes some of the history. The remnants of a giant metal arch still stand in the middle of the river, and we all take down sketches of two mostly-intact churches with their ornate carvings and windows and strange rows of pillars. The teacher isn't quite sure which of the old religions they belonged to and with an eye-roll suggests that it doesn't really matter since they all no longer exist for good reason. I remember my Grandma Tolsey teaching me and my siblings the words of old, forbidden songs and reading verses from the twenty-three raggedly ripped pages she had of her holy book, and keep silent.

We sleep on the hovercrafts that night and spend most of Sunday poking around a sports stadium, though the playing field itself is overgrown with shoulder-high grass and spiky plants. Clara's a little more talkative than the previous month but occasionally lapses into strange silences where she stares off into the distance, completely unaware of the goings-on around her. It's strange to be the one less prone to daydreams and I do my best to keep her with us mentally. We get a chance to wander down one of the corridors where the walls are still lined with old photographs of men in colorful uniforms. Clara stares at these for quite a while and mutters something about being happy and free before we're called back to the main group. I end up having to race for the afternoon train once we arrive back in the Capitol and barely make it in time. I spend the journey home flipping through my sketchbooks at my drawings of a time before Panem and wonder if any of those smiling faces in the old photographs ever imagined their country turning into what we have now.


	16. Chapter 16

In the third week of December the Capitol press invades. The Quarter Quell is just around the corner and the nation of Panem wants special features on each of their forty-nine victors. We get a bit of warning as the media circus hits the Career districts of One and Two before us and we see flashes on the news of them being filmed and photographed. Gloria arrives the day before the cameras and brings Dido and a mixed prep team of Lorcan and two of the boy's preps Jania and Atticus with her to polish us all into camera shape.

I worry that things will be awkward between Lorcan and Beetee, and to a lesser extent between myself and the Capitol man, but neither of them says anything out of order and between the prep team machinations and Gloria's constant stream of instructions all three of us (and any of my family members who get caught in the line of fire) are clean and presentable by the time the cameras arrive.

They start on Cupros first and the rest of us are careful to stay out of his way as he stomps around moodily, clean shaven, sober and in a decent suit. His Games were long enough ago that they didn't have all the hype and nonsense around them, such as having a 'talent', though it was suggested that the older victors pick something up. He grudgingly claimed his boardgames like chess and backgammon and plays a round of each against myself and Beetee. I lose badly at both as I only vaguely know the rules, though Beetee puts up a decent fight on the chessboard.

Beetee is next and they film him in his workshop, snap photos of him beside his shelves of patented inventions and pretend to understand him as he goes into a technical spiel that I know no-one else in the room is following.

I get the longest treatment of all, being the most recent of the three of us. Alongside my workshop scenes they film me trying to teach Malcy his times tables, helping mother cook (something I'm not generally good at as my mind wanders and I end up burning things) and even singing a nonsense song with Balia while our brother laughs and claps along. I'm careful not to be caught speaking alone with Lorcan as I'd rather not have it end up on television, unlike Argentum from One and Brutus from Two, both of whom we saw clips of getting cosy with someone in the last two weeks.

I do get a brief moment alone with Lorcan when we duck upstairs to fix a tangle in my hair before the final photo shoot, though there's not time for more than a quick shoulder squeeze as he combs out the errant curls. After three days of exhaustion and partially stammered interviews (though I got a new record two and a half minutes of continuous speech while talking about my upcoming projects) they all vanish, either back to the Capitol or off to District Four, and the silence is as deafening as their presence was.

I expect Clara and whichever friends she's managed to sneak under her mother's radar to tease me about this during my next Capitol visit, but she seems even more distracted than last time and doesn't mention it. After two hours of pointless window-shopping we sit beside one of the flashy fountains eating sweet pastry rolls and feeding the flakes that fall to the nearby birds.

I see Clara glaring at two young men who sit nearby, laughing loudly and hesitantly ask if there's anything wrong with her and her boyfriend Perry. She gives me a strange look and says, "Yes. No, I don't know. There's something wrong with all of us I think."

She glares at the young men again, then at the half-eaten pastry in her hand.

"I mean look at this. How many times did you eat something like this before you won your Games?"

"I...we had something nice on…on…on…birthdays if we could…could…afford…"

I trail off as she throws the offending sweet at the cluster of pigeons, momentarily scattering them. They quickly regroup and start fighting over the scrap of food.

"I bet if I threw that on the ground in one of the districts I'd see people fighting over it like the pigeons do here. It's sick."

Usually she's so fair-minded about the districts that I'm flummoxed. Then she adds, "It's not necessary anymore. The way the government keeps their heel on your necks, makes people work like slaves so that we can live in luxury. It's been fifty years since the war ended. That's enough years of district kids getting slaughtered to repay their grandparents' mistakes. We should be thinking about the future instead of celebrating the waste."

I suck in a sharp breath and glance around, noting with some relief that the two young men have moved on. No-one would ever dare say something like that out loud in Three. Many of the factory overseers get their promotions based on their willingness to suck up and serve, and anyone caught repeating rebellious ideas generally finds themselves out of a job in record time. I've heard some of the hushed stories from my parents, just before Ezra was born about the groups who would meet in the streets at night and sabotage the factories or the warehouses of goods. Most of them were caught eventually and half a dozen were publicly hanged for violent destruction of Capitol property and treason. My mother said a good number of the other dissenters disappeared and the rest of the district learned to keep their heads down and their mouths shut, back in our assigned places.

It might be a little different here in the Capitol, though I can't imagine Clara's mother, a government minister herself would be pleased at her daughter's ideals. She sees the look on my face and glares at me too. "Oh come on, I thought you of all people here would agree with me. I mean look at you. You're a genius, but instead of letting you work somewhere where you could help make Panem better they threw you in an arena to fight to the death. It's so stupid."

I stop her with a hand on her arm before she gets loud enough to be heard by passers-by. As always when I'm under pressure my mind jitters away from coherent speech, and I manage to force out "I say…I think…different…"

She seems to get the gist and calms down a little. "Sorry," she says softly. "You're right. And I don't want to get you in any trouble."

For the first time all day I see a ghost of her genuine smile, though she still punches a closed fist into the polished marble before she stands. "Come on," she says as she pulls me up by my still shaking hand. "Let's go do something fun and brainless and stop worrying about unnecessary class divides."

She leads me off down one of the wide avenues chattering about some new mystery show I might like on television while I try to calm my heart rate.

~xXx~

I get to stay an extra day in the Capitol to enjoy the New Year celebrations. The throngs of (mostly drunk) people wrapped in bulky woolen fashions by the lake shore is enough cover for Clara to meet up with her less-approved friends and I spend the night with her entire crowd, plus extras, sipping mulled wine and eating sweets while we watch the fireworks.

I get confirmation that Perry and Clara are indeed still together, and the rest of us leave them spending valuable time together off to the side of the conversation. Odelia is clinging to her boyfriend Andronicus, a man in his mid-twenties who looks remarkably normal by Capitol standards. He is quiet, though I notice a lot of the others seem to look at him with some awe. Plutarch Heavensbee and Terry Coulter in particular seem to hang off every one of his rare words. I mostly sit with Helia, not really contributing much to the conversation, though I notice that as much as the others seem drawn to Andronicus Dexter, she avoids him, often shooting mistrustful glances in his direction when he and the others can't see. I'm reminded of watching the Careers during the Games shortly before their alliance collapses. We separate a little before one in the morning and when my chirping alarm wakes me six hours later I feel a little ill.

I spend the entire train-ride home in a half-doze, though I never quite manage to get to sleep as my mind keeps catching on things. I can't quite work it out; my thoughts keep jittering to last night by the lakeshore, the way people were watching Andronicus, Clara's furious outburst as she scatters the pigeons and Beetee standing at a window muttering under his breath, though I can't place when that last one was or what it was he was saying. There's glimpses of my Games, of the girl from Four, and of the recent Victory Tour and our old Escort, the loathsome Carmenius Fallow. I grimace at the last image and try to focus on happier things instead.

~xXx~

My suspicions about the silly gameshow I stayed up watching with Lorcan turn out to be unfortunately true. All 47 living victors are "invited" to the Capitol for a ten-day festival celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Games. There will be interviews, fancy dinners including a gala ball on the first Saturday and a parade through the City Circle that will undoubtedly involve being dressed like tributes in outlandish parodies of our districts. Then, for five days a group of us will be voted in by the public to compete in some of the silliest challenges for the entertainment of everyone watching, and the event will culminate on the final Saturday with the reading of the Quell Card.

I can only hope that the majority of the Capitol audience decides they prefer watching the more outgoing victors, especially from the Career districts, and that I'll avoid any appearances on fashion catwalks or artistic baking challenges. This hope dies when it's announced that only the victors who won after the first Quarter Quell will be eligible for the voting, and that five men and five women will take part in each event. With only eleven of us girls to choose from, many of them more than a decade past their Games, there is no doubt my name will come up at some point. I resign myself to being terrible and getting knocked out of whatever contests I'm in fast.

We leave together on what would be my normal Friday away, and Cupros immediately sinks into his hip-flask, glowering out of the window as the train pulls away from the station where my family are still waving. I watch them until they are completely gone, glad that I talked Ezra into staying home with Laney and my little niece Baliss. I want them as far away from any Games events as possible. Beetee is grumpy too as he is certain that he won't be voted into any popularity contests and will be forced to spend most of the week sitting around wasting time, especially since he had a breakthrough on one of his projects just last week and could be back home working on that instead. I offer to trade him—I'll happily take peace and quiet and let him take the microphone (I have no doubt I'll get tapped if the singing contest gets rolled, at least). He pulls a horrified face and stops complaining.

The Victor's Spire is teeming with activity when our car pulls up outside. We manage to dodge the worst of the cameras as the District One contingent arrives just a minute after we do and the media focus shifts over to the more popular and photogenic quartet. We make a dive for the doors and the relative safety of the lobby, where Diya Patel and Nio Krauss are watching with some amusement.

"Good timing," Diya says as she comes over to greet us. "We were here first and they had us talking for half an hour."

I drop my bag—mostly full of sketchbooks and tools as my wardrobe in my apartment is stocked plentifully from various shopping trips with Clara—at my feet and clasp her offered hand.

"So," she says as she turns and shakes hands with the two men, "Are you three ready to suffer the loss of the last of our dignity for the sake of Capitol entertainment?"

Cupros snorts and throws her a wry smirk. "Not me, girl. I'm too old for them to drag into this nonsense. I'll suffer the parade, get drunk at the party and disappear until they send us home."

Not that he would get picked in a popularity contest even if he was eligible.

"Don't laugh just yet," Diya tells him, "They're bringing out the Games stylists for our parade and gala outfits. Wiress might be ok, but from memory your Lucia is pretty…well…she makes our Andromache look subtle."

Both Beetee and Cupros pull nearly matching grimaces at the thought, though Lucia's parade outfit for our last tribute wasn't terrible. I should have Dido back though, which is definitely a far better prospect.

I glance outside, where the District One victors are still posing for photos and answering questions, and suggest that we head for our rooms before the reporter pack gets bored and possibly comes in after us. I'm alone in the lift when it reaches my floor, and probably alone on my floor too, as I doubt Whisper or Denissa would have arrived before us. The crowd from Two might have got here already, but I expect Brutus would be out in the streets enjoying his fans rather than holed up in an apartment.

The last room on my floor is still empty, waiting for whichever tribute survives the horrors of the Quell Games. Given their strengths, it will most likely be another Career, and I wince at the thought of a second Brutus bellowing and pounding his chest. Or maybe another Denissa, arrogant and haughty. Or maybe another me, intelligent and quiet. That would be nice, though I suppose Whisper from Nine is quiet and intelligent, and I don't care for her company one bit.

I settle in my room, smiling at the framed artwork that hangs on the walls (three of my drawings, two of Clara's and a painting of a garden scene that I bought a few months back while shopping). The shelves of my bedroom are already stocked with books, two half-built miniature robots and a basic toolkit. It's familiar enough to almost feel like a second home and I have no trouble settling in on the couch with a book, the television on in the background as they show the arrival of each group of victors.

~xXx~

I wake to the phone blaring and stumble out to catch it before it rings out, head swirling with early morning bleariness. I manage to focus my eyes as I stammer out a greeting and check the clock—half past seven in the morning.

"Hello Ms Ling, just letting you know that your stylist team will be arriving in five minutes. And do you need breakfast delivered?"

I don't feel hungry enough to eat, and decline with thanks, though I do make myself a large coffee. I sip it slowly and watch out the window as the early morning sun scatters off the metal and glass until the inevitable knock comes on the door. Dido, her usual delicate, colorless self smiles up at me. Over her shoulder I see Lorcan, Juliette and a girl who looks my age with bright orange corkscrew hair and wide blue eyes ringed in fluorescent tattoos. All three of the prep-team members look as half-asleep as I am, and I remember that this is early for them. Dido, as always, looks serene and unperturbed.

"Wiress, it is good to see you. This is Eutropia, our newest team member, to replace Marius."

I smile at the girl and she nods back with a tight smile of her own. Her front teeth are set with glittering blue gemstones that sparkle in the morning light. I step aside to let them in and Juliette gives me a brief hug before scurrying into my bathroom to set the taps running. Lorcan grins and tips his fingers to his fringe as he follows, carrying a large bag over one shoulder. The new girl has her arms full of boxes, which she sets beside the couch and stands silently, peering at the pictures on my walls curiously.

Dido glides to the middle of the room as I close the door and beckons me over to the light by the window. I stand still as she examines me, tutting slightly about the state of my hands—one small cut that's mostly faded from a kitchen knife I fumbled while washing up, and two slightly jagged fingernails—but I know I've been in worse shape.

"I have your dress for the parade and ball tonight prepared. Before that, there is a book signing at the library for two victors from each district."

"Me and Beetee?" I guess and she nods.

"I have several options for you to wear for that, but first-"

Juliette sticks her head out of my bathroom and trills, "We're ready in here."

Dido nods in her direction, and I hand myself over to them for cleaning and preparation of what is going to be a very long day.

~xXx~

I like all three options Dido gives me for my midday appointment and end up asking Lorcan to choose. He immediately goes for the blue and black tartan and tells me with a grin that he has the perfect eye-shadow palette and hair accessories to match it. He flicks one of my curls behind my ear as he says this and I smile up at him. Over his shoulder I see the new girl Eutropia giving us a dirty look. He follows my glance and immediately her face brightens and she hurries over, offering to do my makeup herself.

"You're on outfit duty today," Lorcan reminds her, one eyebrow raised. He taps my earlobe which is still bearing the same small green stones as when I got it pierced three months back. "Why don't you go see if there's some nice earrings in a matching color."

She goes, but doesn't look entirely happy and throws one last reproachful glance over her shoulder as she stalks back out into the living room.

I raise an eyebrow of my own at her retreat and he closes the door with a quiet snick before turning to me, rubbing his head.

"She seemed the best choice when I was interviewing, and she really is a good hand at clothes and make-up but it seems someone…well… she clearly heard a few things about you and me. And I'm starting to suspect-"

"She likes you." I tell him bluntly. He winces. "Yeah, I think she might."

There's no might about it. I've seen the same jealous look on Pella's face whenever my parents were praising me about my academic achievements or talking to Ezra about his work and happy new family. I've seen it on the faces of most of the girls (and some of the boys) I went to school with. I've even seen it on a few faces out in the Capitol, people who saw something they wanted but couldn't have.

"Maybe she should wear…" I trail off, but point to the green outfit beside the tartan on my bed. He snorts, kisses me on the forehead, and mutters that we probably should hurry up and get me dressed.

I at least have clothes on when I have to face her again and she has, to her credit, dug out a set of dangling earrings set with glistening blue and black gemstones. Lorcan praises her choice as well, and she gives him a simpering smile. I hold back a laugh, barely. She continues to hang off him as he combs my hair into a high style, fastened with a clip that's covered in blue silk ribbons and outlines my eyes in delicate shades of blue-gray. Juliette and Dido return—they went to reinforce the teams scrubbing up Beetee and Cupros—and both heartily approve. I get a few seconds to glance at myself in the mirror and decide that I don't mind it either. Not something I would do to myself, but as long as I'm being dolled up in the Capitol, it's quite bearable.

Dido sends me downstairs to meet with the other sacrifices from each district, and I find that Beetee hasn't quite been so lucky. He's wearing a shiny silver jacket and pants with sequins sewn into the cuffs, and a horribly bright turquoise silk shirt. I glance around at the other victors and see half a dozen more wearing shiny sequins, and two others in tartan like me. One of those is Seeder, whose green and gold cross-hatches nicely highlight her eyes, though the less that can be said about her wilting plant-wrapped hat the better. She's joined by Chaff, whose wrist stump is covered in a knitted woolen sock that matches the puffy jumper he's scratching at.

"Whose stupid idea was this," he mutters as Diya and Jackie Ledger from Ten wander over, both sporting sequins as well. Diya's hat, a fuzzy white lump liberally speckled with silver beads nearly covers her eyes and she glances around for her stylist before tucking her shoulder-length hair up under it to keep it out of her face. "Not mine," she says bluntly.

"At least you'll be warm," says a sullen voice behind us and we turn to see Denissa Flow, the strikingly beautiful victor from Four, who has on a figure-fitting dress in the same blue as Beetee's shirt. The sleeves don't reach her elbows and the skirt stops at her knees, showing off her bare legs all the way to her high-heeled sandals.

"It's practically snowing out there," Jackie says, glancing out the doors, where the line of photographers is already waiting. "Does your stylist really have no sense?"

"Apparently not," she replies.

I'm just glad that mine does. When old Marcie from Twelve finally hobbles out into the lobby wrapped in an awful brown and black tartan overcoat the production crew start ushering us outside into the waiting cars. The icy wind gusts just two steps out of the building and I see Morstan, the male victor from Four wordlessly remove his suit jacket and hand it to Denissa. She scowls, but takes it as they climb into the car ahead of me.


	17. Chapter 17

The book signing doesn't end up being too awful. We're in the large entrance hall of the main public library, which is reasonably well heated, especially with the large crowd of bodies. They sit us in a U- arrangement of tables ordered by district and we take turns scribbling our names and passing a few brief words with anyone who lines up at our desks. The book is a large colorful volume with a two-page spread on each of the forty-nine victors, including pictures from their Games, various interviews and often showing off our talents.

Even though it's only been two years since my Games, I'm not one of the most sought after autographs, and seem to mostly be the target of people who want the full collection. Most people, after seeing the lines just go for the signatures of one or two of their favorites and leave, which means both Beetee and I actually get occasional breaks. The tables on either side of us aren't so lucky, especially Denissa, who is still shivering even with the heating and the jacket wrapped around her shoulders. She doesn't even get a chance to pause and stretch out her fingers.

On our left Brutus has an even bigger crowd, though their female victor, the stone-faced woman who mentored Two the year of my Games isn't nearly as popular. She doesn't seem overly friendly either. After two hours they close the entrance and we clear out the remaining queues in another half-hour. I didn't see any of my Capitol friends about, though I guess none of them are quite so obsessed with the Games to waste their afternoon here. We're each presented with our own copy of the book, and I flip through it on the ride back to the Spire. My pages aren't too bad. The Games pictures show me walking through the green pathways, setting snares and standing on top of the tower, looking out over the maze below. None of my later days covered in scabs and insect bites, or of my bloody moment of victory are shown. There's one picture of my crowning, another of an interview. A full half of the second page is a photo of me standing in my workshop surrounded by my toys. I can live with that.

Some of the others have much less pleasant memories. I wince when I flip to Beetee's page and see the silhouetted image of him kneeling beside the netted pool, stark shadows thrown from the glowing arc of lighting. The hefty branch he used to keep the five Careers caught until the bolt struck his wired tree is just beside his clenched hand. The words jump out from the text beside it; innovative and unexpected. Absolutely no-one predicted him to make it past the first day, let alone win while so heavily outnumbered.

Before him Victoria Wells poses viciously with a crude wooden spear, duels another girl wielding a hand-made stone knife, wrestles with a scrawny boy with ashen skin and short black hair. Apparently that year the cornucopia had no weapons and the tributes were forced to improvise. Before her, the unpleasant victor from Five, Warrick James. Laughing at the top of a rock-pile, grinning as he runs through a bloody, crippled figure, arm muscles bulging as he reaches for a scrawny boy on a cliff-top.

The car jolts to a stop and we're hurried back upstairs for another round with the prep teams. The parade, similar to the pre-Games tribute one will involve us standing in chariots for the ride from here to the president's mansion, where we will spend the night at a party with the Capitol elite.

The shimmering silver dress Dido puts me in falls to my ankles and the shoulders are covered in a warm woolen wrap as protection against the cold. Lorcan leaves my hair loose so that it falls around my neck as an extra layer of warmth, though he does wind in a few clips that trail silver chains and turquoise beads. He uses the airbrush that I made him to paint delicate silver designs around the edges of my face and on the backs of my hands, like the tattoos I've seen some people wearing. With the silver lipstick, I look almost metallic. Like I'm only half human, and half machine. It's as good a compromise as I could hope for on our district theme.

Once again, as soon as I see some of the others in the lobby I realize how lucky I am to have Dido as a stylist. Denissa from Four appears in another outfit more suited to summer weather and Diya's stylist Andromache appears to have given up on high fashion and dumped the woman from Five in a baggy silver bodysuit splotched with patches of white fuzz. "At least I won't freeze," she mutters to me, stroking the white tufts of fur near her ribs.

I wince when I see Beetee and Cupros step out of the lift, both dressed in approximately what Beetee was wearing earlier. Like me, someone has added silver designs around their faces and on their hands, though whoever the artist is on the boys' prep team, they're not as skilled as Lorcan, and are most likely using an inferior tool. I decide that when I get home, I'll send Dido and Lucia their own custom airbrushes for use on any of our district's tributes in the future. Beetee even has the same silver lipstick on as me, and when I look closely at Cupros I see a trace of silver around his thin mouth. He smirks and pulls a silver-stained handkerchief out of his pocket. "I seem to have accidentally wiped my face. What a shame."

I hear a laugh behind me and find the three older female victors from Four. Unlike Denissa, they all have woven net-patterned shawls draped over their shoulders and long, sequin-lined gloves for warmth. Morstan joins them, like Beetee dressed exactly as he was before. He has his jacket back on and apparently received a tirade from his stylist for daring to remove it to give to someone else in the first place. I see him offer it to Denissa again as we are herded outside to the waiting chariots, though this time she refuses.

Cupros helps both myself and Beetee up into our chariot, where the two soot-gray horses are steaming in the cold evening air. Ahead of us the eleven victors from Two are arranged in their three chariots, Brutus of course in the front of the leading cart.

District Four has two chariots for their five victors, while everyone else makes do with one, though the groups from One, Five, Ten and Eleven look a little cramped with four people each. The streets are lined with cheering fans as we roll past, though it's nothing close to the crowd we see for the Games. I don't waste my energy waving; I doubt there's many people looking at me when there are so many more interesting faces to watch. Behind me, the warm comforting press of Beetee and Cupros' bodies makes me feel secure. The ride is a shorter one, only fifteen minutes and we head immediately inside to warm our hands and faces as the party begins.

Towers of champagne glasses are filled from the balcony, fountains of melted chocolate for dipping pour freely, and dozens of people wander about with trays of small nibbles. I snag two puffed pastries full of spiced vegetables and a round of something stuffed with pineapple and cheese, my stomach reminding me that my last meal was over a full day ago. Beetee shoots me a warning look when I take a glass of sparkling alcohol from the tower, but I know how to drink safely now and touch glasses with Diya while we watch the more attractive victors get swarmed by the Capitol's rich and famous.

I keep to my usual method of two glasses of water or juice for every alcoholic drink, and a decent bite of food at least every half hour. It leaves me hovering on the border of tipsy while everyone around me skips to drunk, and about half past eight someone hands me a camera and tells me to have fun with it. I've never used one this fancy before, though with a little playing I work out the basic functions and spent the rest of the night being moderately entertained.

Cupros does exactly as he said he would, and staggers drunkenly out the doors a little before ten, vanishing into the night. I spot a few of the other older victors slipping out a side-door when a Capitol woman stumbles into one of the chocolate fountains with a loud crash.

The longer the night goes, the easier it becomes to spot us district-born victors as we tire and start drifting to the edges. I rescue Beetee twice from a middle-aged man who keeps talking at him about fantastically unrealistic ideas for travelling into space, and even haul Diya to safety when her shoe skids in a puddle of chocolate, though the force nearly pulls me over with her. The distraction of the camera means they're all more drunk than I am, and I end up helping carry both Beetee and Diya out to the cars around two in the morning. Diya is singing horribly out of tune and Beetee spends the journey back to the Spire trying to explain to her the science behind harmonics. I sit in the front seat, cover my ears and watch the driver chuckle as he takes us home. Neither of them are walking very straight so I go with them to their rooms, suddenly feeling rather responsible. Beetee hugs me as I help him open his door, but manages to stumble away without assistance to the couch. I consider going after him and making sure he's fine—I'm pretty sure he doesn't usually drink this much on the rare occasions he drinks at all—but I hear Diya start singing again in the corridor and decide he's old enough to manage on his own. He probably doesn't need a little sister figure hanging about.

~xXx~

I wake feeling absolutely fine, though I can't remember who the camera full of silly photos belonged to. I consider calling Beetee to check up on him, but if he's anything like me after a heavy night, the last thing he'll want to do is talk to people. And he's going to already have to do that at some point today.

Our schedule for today is full of interviews, in order of our Games, so I won't be until quite late tonight. In-between these they will be showing the segments they filmed a few months back on each of us. Otherwise we are free to do as we like. After I eat my delivered breakfast, clean up the remains of smudged silver makeup and dress in some of the more comfortable clothes I bought for myself I end up wandering down to the lobby, where I find a scattering of hung-over victors lounging about on the couches.

"Aha," Glory Winchester cries when he sees me, and reclaims the camera, admitting sheepishly that he completely forgot who he gave it to. He sits with me, Jackie, Chaff and big Terentius Garcia from Two, laughing as we flick through the pictures I took. We chat for a while about small things, and around eleven Arturus from Two joins us with a deck of cards. It's surprisingly comfortable to sit around with this group of victors, watching over Glory's shoulder as he explains the rules and tricks of poker to me. The others chip in with their own tips and after a dozen hands I draw my pool of betting chips (in reality, thin individually wrapped chocolate squares, a basket of which Chaff "borrowed" from somewhere) and join in. I lose a lot at first but after a while I stop listening to the bantered advice and go with my gut instinct instead. I win five of the next eight hands and acquire the last of Chaff's chocolates as Beetee appears, looking pale and a little green.

He blinks twice when he sees who I'm sitting with, shakes his head and wanders over to sit on my armrest. "Poker, really?"

"She just cleaned me out," Chaff admits with a grin, "Though I did eat one or two of them when I was winning. Regretting it now."

Beetee laughs nervously, and I realize that while he's only a few years older than most of them he's not particularly comfortable or friendly with them, besides maybe the woman from Ten. Even Chaff, who _is_ closer to my age than his, tends to be too loud and rowdy for my mentor's taste.

"So," Chaff says to break the awkward silence, "Any bets on what stupid thing the Capitol will have us doing tomorrow?"

All three Career victors groan, and I don't blame them. Unlike me they will be both popular and recent enough to get stuck participating.

"I heard they'll announce each event at sunset the night before and let the votes go to sunrise. _We_ get no warning of course," Jackie says as she deals the next hand.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of volunteers?" Glory jokes.

"Who would volunteer for this crap?" Chaff replies as he leans around to peer at Terentius' hand while the big man from Two throws in his two chocolate bet.

"Brutus, if there's anything remotely involving a fight," he says and Artutus nods in agreement.

Chaff snorts. "Him, he spent half the dinner in Eleven getting all up in Seeder's face about how only cowards use poison to kill people."

I remember him trying to insult Beetee in a similar way in Three, though my mentor didn't care in the slightest.

"And what did she say?" asks Jackie. Chaff grins in reply. "She told him she added some to his last drink. He went real quiet after that. Seems to me she weren't the coward at the table."

We all laugh, and continue laughing as our most recent victor happens to step out of the lift at that moment. He scowls at the company his district fellows are keeping, but marches over to join the group. I decide I'd rather not spend any more time in his company and toss my cards down and stand.

"I should probably go…go…"

I hesitate as they all look at me until Beetee jumps in and says, "That's right, we said we'd meet them at half-twelve. It is getting on close."

I smile at him, relieved I won't have to make up some excuse, and offer Brutus my seat. He takes it with a slight sneer, so I reach back down and snatch two of the chocolates before leading Beetee away. Glory and Chaff's laughter follows us all the way to the doors, and when I offer the second piece to Beetee he takes it with a small smile.

"So, who are we supposedly…"

"Meeting? Oh, take your pick. I'm sure the Mastersons, Heavensbees or the Dixons wouldn't mind us dropping by. Have you met Leata Dixon yet? She hasn't sponsored for a few years, but she called me a few months back and suggested she might have money."

"In exchange for…"

"The usual," he says with a small smile. "Her crew primarily do video games, especially the immersive stuff. You remember the-"

"Visor," I finish for him, remembering the strange headpiece that let people see as though they were inside a three dimensional virtual reality. He showed me a few months back when someone sent him one to work on.

"Let's go there then. You'll like her, though her brother is a bit…well…maybe he won't be there with all the parties going on."

He opens the door for me and I pull my wool coat tight around me as we step out into the cold air, dodging the handful of cameras and reporters as we head out into the Capitol streets to ply our trade together.

~xXx~

Dido appears with Lorcan to help me prepare for my interview around six, though I won't be on for another three and a half hours. I keep the television on as Lorcan brushes something through my hair to make it shine and paints my nails bright silver, watching the tail end of Beetee's segment. For each of us, they have cut together a short three or four minute video which includes a few highlights from our Games and bits of the footage they filmed a couple of months ago in our home districts. This is followed by a live interview for all but the two who have died (Emilio Buchanan from One and Marissa Whittick from Six, both of whom still get the highlights video and a clip of a few brief words from their surviving families). The interviews last around ten minutes, with Narcissus Elkheart the long-time Games commentator, who started the show by announcing his retirement from the Games production team once the Quell Card reading is over.

Beetee is followed by the string of five more non-Career victors, the longest streak in all forty-nine years without a victor from districts One, Two or Four. This includes Jackie and Diya and ends with the mumbling, off-kilter Dominic from Six. I remember he and the other woman from Six, Kaylee spent the whole Games last year buzzed up on morphling, slurring their words and mostly staring at the walls. On the plus side, they make me look quite normal by comparison. This run is followed by the three Career men I was playing cards with this morning, and they are followed by another short video segment for Ashwyn Lucas from Seven, the only living victor not here in the Capitol.

His Games were the year of my first reaping, and though he did kill the boy from Two in the final fight it cost him both his eyes and the savage cut to his throat mangled his vocal chords enough that he can't really speak. The heavy scars across his face and his inability to interact with the world around him was enough for the Capitol programmers to leave him home.

I'm summoned downstairs once Chaff appears on screen and make the short drive three blocks to the stage outside the Training Centre with Denissa from Four, who is once again wearing summer-weight clothing that shows off a lot of skin. I don't like her enough to offer her my coat or scarf, and we ignore each-other completely both in the car and while waiting through Whisper's fifteen minutes on stage.

Brutus arrives just as Denissa goes on, his thin shirt half-unbuttoned and looking far too cold for the weather, and he paces irritably back and forth across the waiting space. He only seems to notice me when a producer calls me forward and gives me a brief nod before going back to pacing, his fingers drumming impatiently on his crossed arms.

I've already resigned myself to stammering and stuttering my way through Narcissus' questions, but he sticks mostly to my good topics—my work and my family—and with the popular Brutus to follow I escape quickly to moderate applause. Which turns into a roar as the reigning Hunger Games victor replaces me, taking center stage with a chest-pounding battle cry.

I don't bother tuning in to the rest of his much longer interview once I get back. Instead I flick over to see the current votes for the first of the gameshow rounds and breathe a sigh of relief. The first challenge was announced as "The Catwalk" where the unlucky ones will have to compete in modelling their stylist's fashions. I'm not entirely sure how people can compete at that, but since there's five other women well ahead of me in votes, it looks like it won't be my problem. The five men—all Careers, I notice, including my three card-playing friends—look to be set as well and I go to bed feeling quite content.

~xXx~

I take my first hit on Wednesday, when "The Voice" is announced, and as per my prediction I'm up amongst the top five picks. The downside to singing to myself during my Games. I'll be up against Denissa (who has been the top female pick for all three events so far), Jackie (who, like me had the misfortune of publicly displaying her singing ability), Seeder, and either Rhea or Lyme from Two. Neither woman seemed particularly inclined to singing from my brief interactions with them.

Terentius manages to dodge his first event, though Brutus, Arturus and Glory are all in, along with Tolby (who I heard drunkenly bellowing something vaguely in tune at the party on Saturday) and dark, handsome Morstan from Four.

As soon as the final votes are locked in we get called downstairs. Brutus slams his door and stomps into the lift just ahead of me, scowling at the walls. I cover a smile with my hand, as though I'm yawning. Like Denissa, he's been the winner of the fan vote amongst the men all three days, but hasn't won either of the "challenges". I doubt he cares one bit about losing the modelling show to Denissa, but the second challenge—a race that included both running and paddling a boat across part of the lake—played right to his strengths, and I can't imagine he enjoyed being beaten by Arturus, Glory and Lyme.

In the lobby, we are each handed off to a small team who will decide which song we will be performing for the Capitol audience late this afternoon, and what we will be wearing while doing so. Unfortunately this last isn't decided by our Games stylists, but by young up-and-coming designers who seem determined to out-do one another and prove their worth. My team, already sulking about not getting one of the popular victors, gives me a mournful piece about someone tragically dying. I'm a little surprised as the song references angels, fictitious creatures from one of the old religions that were messengers from the clouds, but none of them seem to think anything of it.

It does fit my voice reasonably well, and they seem surprised when it only takes me two renditions to have it down word perfect. I roll my eyes—after all, my prodigious memory is something I _am_ still famous for here—and let them start the argument about my outfit. I end up dressed in a sweeping white gown edged with fluttering silver strands and painful silver shoes with clattery, thin heels. My face is once again edged in silver and the stylist—in a moment of artistic rapture—adds bright silver tears beneath each of my eyes, each set with a diamond. I hate the whole outfit and pray to the skies that are apparently full of crying angels to not turn my ankle or trip on the dragging hem while on stage.

I perform third, and manage to get the all words out in the correct order and in tune (an improvement over both Rhea and Tolby before me) and receive a moderate cheer and a few whistles. Brutus, who takes the stage after me gets a louder cheer just by waving, though it dies off after he proves that singing is decidedly _not_ one of his talents.

I'm just happy to be out of the spotlight and sit quietly in the seats off to the right-hand side of the stage, watching as each of us in turn performs our assigned number. Seeder is decent, though like me they give her a less well known song about the beauty of nature and she gets a similar lukewarm reception. Arturus has something tribal with lots of drums and made-up words. He's dressed in warpaint and feathers, apparently some reference to his distant heritage, and is mostly in tune.

We all laugh and clap along with Jackie's routine, which is bouncy and humorous, and at the end she flings her wide-brimmed hat like a disc into the clapping crowd with a loud cry of "Ye-haaaa" and clomps noisily off stage in her heavy riding boots. Lean, handsome Glory performs something with only a few repeated words, but a heavy dance routine that includes stripping off his bejeweled jacket and ripping open the buttons on his gleaming white shirt underneath. He gets the largest cheer yet and ends up gliding off stage and collapsing in the chair next to me, still gasping for breath. He is already shivering, his upper torso now bare. I unhook the heavy, draping white sleeves from the clips at my wrists and shoulders and hand him one of the lengths of cloth to wrap himself up in against the cold. He gives me a surprised smile and takes it, wrapping it around his shoulders. I offer the second one to Arturus, who is also half-naked but he declines with a small smile and wave as the next performer is announced to thunderous applause.

It turns out that both Denissa and Morstan are at least as good singers as I am, and much better performers on stage, and the judges deliberate only five minutes before announcing the pair from Four in first and second place. Glory takes out third and quickly unwraps himself to reappear for the cheering crowd. Seeder and Jackie help me re-affix the sleeve-wings just before the rest of us are summoned back on stage for a final bow and I realize ten seconds too late that one of them is upside-down. Not that anyone but my style team is likely to notice. They hold the three winners back for more interviews and let the rest of us escape back to the Spire.

The large television screen in the lobby is blaring as we arrive just in time to see tomorrow's challenge announced: "The Tower," a giant structure that the competitors will have to climb, collecting as many rings as possible on the way up in a limited amount of time. I should be safe from that one too, though I hear Arturus groan.

To my delighted surprise, Lorcan is waiting outside my door to help me get rid of the awful white dress. He tells me to relax and unwinds the wrapped layers himself, joking about some of the more terrible singers and, in particular, about the ultra-competitive Brutus, who still hasn't won anything. On TV I see that he's still well ahead in fan-votes and will definitely be climbing tomorrow. I'm seventh in the votes for women, well behind the Careers Denissa, Lyme, Rhea and Toria, and far enough behind Jackie and sly Whisper to not worry. Lorcan stays for a quick coffee, though he's already promised to be at a party with some of the other stylists. The apartment seems oddly quiet once he's gone and I spend several hours ignoring the music and yelling that floats up from the street (and I expect, from a few of the rooms in the Spire), tinkering with one of my robots before I bury my head under a pillow and try to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

I end up watching the climbing challenge in a large café alongside Clara, Gamicus, Perry and a rowdy group of their other friends. Most of the boys have bets flying back and forth as today's ten unlucky victors, all dressed in skin-tight climbing suits each race their way up the giant construct that's been set up in front of yesterday's stage. The "tower" has a heavy base with artificial climbing rocks and holes, which molds into an artificial tree-like series of upper branches. The trunk of this leads to a series of wobbly rope nets that seem especially unstable in the gusty late winter winds. All around the structure, bright golden rings about the width of my hand span are hung on hooks for the climber to collect. Each of them have six minutes to make their climb, gathering along the way.

The men appear to have an obvious advantage, as they tend to be taller and stronger than most of the women. However, once they clear all the rings around the lower levels, the lighter, more agile women seem to do better on the thin, spindly "branches" and on the twisting ropes. Eight of the ten victors involved are careers, by nature quite competitive and, despite the windy weather, appear keen to excel in this purely physical challenge.

Brutus (to the cheers of Perry's friends Thannicus and Uriel) appears to set an unassailable record over his district fellows Toria, Terentius, Lyme, Arturus and Rhea. He also makes a screaming claim that he can't be defeated which gets a responding cheer in the café. In the background of the screen I can see Whisper, who is getting strapped in to her harness blatantly roll her eyes. For once I find myself agreeing with her.

Brutus' record lasts exactly five and a half minutes into Whisper's climb. The lithe nineteen-year-old from District Nine, who at one stage during her Games climbed silently down a twenty foot rock-face at night to strangle one of her victims practically dances through the narrow branches and fluttering nets. True to her name, she doesn't say much in her post-climb interview beyond a breezy comment that she finds climbing easy. Uriel, one of Perry's fellows at the university grudgingly pays up to Clara who, when pressed, put her bet on the lithe woman.

Glory is apparently not keen on heights, and struggles once he gets past the lowest of the branches. He shrugs off his failure with a laugh and just seems thankful to have his feet safely back onto the ground. Denissa gives us the first fall of the day when she loses her grip on the lowest net and tumbles all the way down to three feet off the ground before the rope harness catches, with a small scream. She picks herself up, cheeks flaming red and a purplish bruise already spreading across her jawline, where she clipped the edge of the stone tower. Most of the café are laughing, and one older man I don't know makes a loud suggestion about something else she could fall on. I notice that Clara, sitting in the darkest corner of our booth, isn't laughing. She glares at her drink, and at the men around us until she notices me watching her. I at least get a small smile.

"What's she like?" Clara asks, nodding at the screen, where the chirpy reporter has a microphone shoved in Denissa's face.

"She's…well.." I think back to my few interactions with the fiery woman from Four, who has always seemed short-tempered and arrogant. I remember conversations with some of the other victors from Four, in particular Mags, who was Denissa's Games mentor. I got the distinct impression that none of them like their younger district-fellow either. I must pull some sort of disparaging face because Clara raises her eyebrows and says, "Really? I just assumed…never mind."

Assumed that she was nice, at least in private just because she's a girl? A survivor of the Games? I definitely pity Denissa for the way she is treated and objectified, but it doesn't make it any easier for me to like her.

Third place gets claimed by the last climber, an unpleasant man from Five who won his Games nearly eighteen years ago. A prolific climber, Warrick's skill makes up for his reduced strength, though he too is slowed by the loose nets. The wind seems to have died off a bit, judging by the lack of fluttering pennants, which makes his run easier, and he touches back down with a whoop to rival Brutus. The golden rings jingle around his belt, though he comes up two short to beat the score of the fuming victor from Two. Whisper stands between them, nearly a full head shorter with that sly, self-satisfied smile on her face and gives the crowd a single nod.

I don't remember her having too many sponsors during her Games, being average looking and not particularly personable, even in her post-Games events. Like me, her fans were limited to only a handful once someone more attractive and popular came along, though I bet she's won a few of them back now.

The gushing reporter takes to the stage after trying (and failing) to get some final words out of Whisper, to announce the final event and I groan before she's finished. It will be an obstacle course, a series of challenges that will require both physical and mental strength, and creative ingenuity. I have no doubt, with that description that my name will come up. Instead of competing alone, there will be five paired teams who will have to work together. These will be male-female, but the pairings will be randomized once the ten people are chosen. All I can hope is that I don't get stuck with someone like Brutus.

~xXx~

After an evening chatting with Beetee, who has spent the last four days at the Dixon's workshop working on their VR visor I head to my room to get some likely necessary sleep. As I step out of the lift I notice that the first door on my floor is open and a few words drift out.

"I don't particularly care what you do to my brother, or the rest of my family. I won't mourn their loss. Not interested."

There is a clatter, a phone being hung up and I hold my breath as I tiptoe past, not wanting to have anything to do with Whisper, or whatever she's got herself caught up in. My mind jumps to a conversation on my Victory Tour in Four, about the tragic house-fire that killed two of Denissa's cousins when she refused to return to the Capitol the year after her victory. I'm very glad that I'm not as attractive or interesting as most of the other victors.

I flick on my television on the off chance that Whisper's recent popularity means I won't have to spend another day in front of the cameras. Unfortunately it seems we've both jumped ahead of some of the older Career women instead, and I'm actually the second pick, just behind Denissa. Whisper is third, the most athletic of the women from Two, Lyme is fourth and there's a scattering of others around equal for the last place.

The top five men are all Careers, as expected, though as I'm watching I see Beetee overtake Warrick from Five in sixth place. I guess people paid attention to the line about being innovative, because by morning Beetee has overtaken Morstan as the fifth man, and my friend Diya claims the last place amongst the women. Our style teams briefly reappear to dress us in the days outfits—more body-fitting jumpsuits, which are warmer than I expected—and to do some basic make-up and hair fixes.

Once downstairs we're driven across to the stage, where yesterday's climbing structure has been mostly removed. One face of the twenty foot high rock wall remains, a row of metal rods suspended along the top, each holding a dangling metal cage. At the base rests five large wooden crates. I hate to admit it, but my curiosity is piqued.

We are lined up on the stage to the cheers of the thousand-odd live fans in the crowd, plus the many more watching on large screens in the surrounding streets, and the young man who was announced as Narcissus Elkheart's replacement as Games announcer runs the show. He has a lucky contest winner from the audience join us onstage to draw our random pairings by selecting colored balls from a black bag. The girl, a giggling teenager, flutters her eyelids at Brutus as she hands him the green ball, gives Terentius an admiring glance as he gets the yellow and sniffs derisively as she hands a disgruntled Beetee the purple. My mentor was surprised as anyone to find himself chosen for one of these challenges and had already arranged to spend the day more productively.

Glory and Arturus round out the last of the men, and if I can't be paired with Beetee I hope for one of them. The man from One has been only friendly to me since we met while mentoring the last Games, while the quiet man from Two has been passingly pleasant. Even Terentius wouldn't be terrible, though I feel sorry for whoever gets Brutus. Our reigning victor really doesn't like losing, and this is his last chance to succeed.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the first of us ladies in line, Whisper gets green and moves across to stand beside the big man who she out-climbed yesterday. He glares, she smirks and I have a sneaking suspicion that his losing streak is going to continue. Quite possibly deliberately.

Quiet Arturus gets Diya and gives her a friendly nod, and Lyme and Terentius both seem pleased to be working with a district partner. Denissa scowls furiously when she gets matched with Beetee, which leaves me with the handsome man from One. I'm perfectly content with this arrangement, and to my surprise Glory is too.

"If there's anything that involves climbing, you're doing it," he mutters to me as a production assistant ties blue bands around our arms. "I'll take the heavy lifting and running, and you can do the heights and the thinking. Between us we have this covered."

I'm not entirely convinced, and not sure I want the extra attention that will come from winning. His grin is infectious though, and I see him throw a sidelong glance at Brutus as we line up once again to receive our instructions. I guess Whisper isn't the only one who enjoys seeing Brutus sulk.

Our host, a snide young man named Claudius Templesmith explains the rules as though we're children: There will be a series of four challenges that will test us both physically and mentally. The last pair to finish each challenge will be eliminated from the next round, with just two pairs contesting the final round. The winning pair will receive a two-part trophy, a glamorous make-over and a whole host of TV appearances. Their districts will also receive a grant for a community project. This last convinces me to at least put some effort in, otherwise I'd deliberately throw just to avoid the media attention.

For the first challenge, each pair is given one of the crates and a small key, and assigned one of the locked cages. Our aim: unlock the cage and retrieve the fancy key inside for a later round using the provided materials. The cages are suspended on the end of a five foot rod out from the wall, twenty feet above the ground. In true Games fashion they give us a 60 second countdown from a line twenty-five yards back and make us run for our supplies.

Glory gets there well before I do and already has three yanks at the crate lid, which is nailed down.

"Corner," I gasp at him and try to tilt the big wooden box when he looks at me blankly. He seems to understand when I pull it briefly up onto an edge and picks up the four-foot-square box with ease, dropping it sharply on the point. One edge falls easily open, and our supplies tumble out. To my left I see Arturus and Brutus immediately copy Glory's move, though Brutus drives his crate so hard into the ground that two of the sides fall out and a third splinters noisily. Further down, the pair from Two succeed in forcing the lid with brute strength and start pulling out their own collection of objects.

While Glory lines up our supplies I look up at the cage hanging above us, trying to examine the lock. The key-hole is perpendicular to the ground, meaning we'd need a rotating component or an angular bend, assuming we can construct a pole long enough to reach. I look down again at our materials: four foot-long sections of slightly bendy plastic tubing, two three-foot wooden poles, a small roll of wire and a larger roll of electrical tape. And the crate, still four feet tall and probably strong enough to hold our weight. Suddenly I'm back in my senior science class, our teacher has just handed us this term's project challenge and I'm ready to go. I have the plastic and wood pieces alternated and taped before I look up to see Glory grinning at me, letting me do my thing. The last plastic piece goes horizontally with the key attached by the wire.

"Anything I can do?" he asks as I check the sturdiness, and I point him at the open-sided crate.

"Put that flat, see if it holds…"

He does as I ask, flipping the open side face-down and gently climbing onto it. He bounces on the balls of his feet a few times to confirm it's sturdy enough and gives me a thumbs-up.

"That's cheating!" Brutus bellows from ten yards over. We all look to the nearest official, who shrugs and says that there's nothing in the rules against using the crate itself. Immediately the three other groups flip their boxes to stand on while Brutus glowers at the broken wreck of his own. I pass Glory the pole, though as expected he's a few feet short of reaching. He frowns and turns to me.

"If you-"

"Shoulders." I say, and he grins, apparently already on this line of thought. It turns out to be easiest for me to climb on the crate, get on his shoulders while he's on the ground and stay balanced as he gets back up. The first try I nearly fall and he has to fumble to catch me. Around us we hear the audience laugh and I blink, surprised. I'd been so caught up in the task I'd forgotten they were there. The second try goes better and with me on his shoulders, it's an easy reach. I slot the key on the tenth try and tug down and to the right to turn it. The door falls open and I use the horizontal piece with the first key still attached to snag our target. It ends up falling and bouncing of Glory's face.

"Ow," he says, wincing as he lowers me down gently, rubbing his eye once his hands are free. Then he grins and grabs me in a hug, spinning me around, though he lets me go before I start to panic. I realize there's cheering and look around. We're the first ones done. I collect our prize, this one a bright golden key with a gemstone inlay and hand it to my partner, who raises it above his head and waves to the crowd. I'm perfectly happy to let him get the attention, and I sit back down on my crate to watch the others.

Diya and Arturus replicate our method and soon have their own key free. Past them, Brutus and Whisper try to do the same as well, but without the extra height from the crate they can't reach. Terentius and Lyme use their extra height and strength to advantage and, though their pole is inferiorly crafted, they too get the lock undone. At the far end Beetee and Denissa are arguing loudly, their pieces still scattered around their feet. Judging by the tape still fluttering on some of the pieces, Beetee saw the same solution I did but the feisty girl from Four disagreed and pulled apart what he had made. She is still yelling at him when Brutus and Whisper, who don't have a crate to stand on or a pole sturdy enough to hold come up with their own solution.

The helpful stones which were attached to the wall yesterday for climbing have been removed, but there are still enough crevasses for Brutus to get nearly six feet up. Whisper, who doesn't look entirely thrilled at his suggestion, uses his body as a ladder and climbs onto his shoulders, bracing herself against the wall. She wobbles slightly, standing on her toes as he roars "Just do it girl!"

To the gasps of all of us watching she crouches, then leaps upwards, her hands just catching the horizontal metal bar. She manages to drag herself upwards until she is sitting on it and lies flat, crawling along until she's balanced over the cage. Brutus, at her nod, throws her the key and after a few minutes of wrestling with the lock and unhelpful yelling from the victor from Two she gets it open and retrieves her prize. With the remarkable agility that helped her win her Games she swings down on the bar and drops the roughly fourteen feet to the ground with ease. Brutus roughly snatches the key from her hand and holds it up for the cheering crowd, sneering at Beetee and Denissa.

The woman from Four throws down the two pieces of wooden pole in disgust and glares at my mentor. Beetee gives a rueful shrug and murmurs something inaudible over the still applauding crowd. I have no doubt he's happy to get out of all of this nonsense, though he makes some effort to look disappointed when the camera points in their direction. Denissa apparently doesn't buy it and as soon as the cameras aim back towards Templesmith she violently shoves my mentor back, over their cracked crate where he flails and hits the ground hard. Lyme steps in and grabs her before she does anything else while Brutus laughs loudly and Whisper smirks. I run over to my friend and help him upright. Both of his hands are scraped and bleeding.

"I'm fine, really," he says as he gets back onto his feet and wipes his hands on his sides, leaving two vivid red stripes on the creamy white jump-suit. Finally several harried production-officials descend and order us all back in our positions. I decide, as I walk past Brutus and Whisper, that maybe I do want to put some effort into winning after all, if only to hurt our newest victor's pride a little more.

~xXx~

We get an hour to rest while they set the stage for the second challenge. I sit in the corner listening to Diya and Glory chat about their pets (three cats, and a dog and a custom-bred pine marten, respectively) while nibbling on some of the sandwiches provided to keep us energized. Glory offers to rub my shoulders when we're given our five minute warning, trying to pump me up, which seems to amuse Diya for some reason.

Brutus elbows his way to the front of the group to lead us back out onto the stage, where we find our second task and the cheering audience already waiting. We have to take turns racing across a narrow balance beam to collect as many large puzzle pieces as we can carry, though if we drop any on our way back we have to start the crossing over. Once we have all twenty-four pieces we have to put them together to build a 3D replica of a Games cornucopia. One of the twenty-four pieces won't be used and we have to then race across the beam once more and place that piece on a latch, releasing a second bejeweled key to add to our collection.

Glory goes first and hauls eight of the pieces back with him. The men from Two try to do the same, though all three of them take at least one fall and have to start their crossing again. I'm slow but not terrible at balancing and manage another two pieces without any slips. My partner races out again, dancing gracefully across the narrow beam, while to his left Terentius slips and falls with his second arm-full, landing painfully for a man. He swears loudly as the golden pieces go tumbling to the sides and struggles to stand. I do fall once about four feet along my second run, banging my shin painfully on the way down. Hobbling slightly, I re-gather my two pieces and limp my way back, exceptionally glad I have an athletic partner to do the hard work. He practically sprints back with our last five pieces and tosses them at my feet, ready to start solving. Only Brutus and Whisper beat us to the puzzle stage and I take one quick glance at their progress before diving in to our pile and trying to build. Glory hovers around the edge, occasionally offering suggestions or helping hold bits in place while I work in my focus zone until the construction is done. As I'm placing the last two pieces I hear a loud roar and look up to see Arturus and Diya waving their key at the crowd. I hand Glory our extra piece and he leads the charge across the balance beam into second place. Once again I let him bask in the spotlight while I sink to the ground and poke at my sore leg. The two remaining teams appear roughly even throughout the construction, though in the end Terentius' nasty fall and resulting time loss costs them and they lose to Brutus and Whisper by half the balance beam length.

This time all of us except Glory and Whisper line up for the medical staff in our hour-long rest. The young doctor pulls three wooden splinters out of my shin, douses the scrape in a stinging wash and hands me a painkiller pill. Glancing around I see some of the others have fared worse. Terentius in particular appears to be limping badly and has Brutus hovering nearby laughing at him to make it worse. Diya, the long, shallow scrape along her arm bandaged, hobbles over where I'm sitting and pokes at her leg, which appears to have suffered similar splinters to mine.

"I don't care about winning as long as that jerk from Two gets beat," she mutters, and I nod my agreement as our newest victor laughingly re-enacts Terentius' painful fall, wildly flailing his arms for added drama. Glory, who has spent his time productively demolishing the remaining plate of sandwiches, grins at her.

"Aw, come on Diya, we all want to win here. That's why we're victors."

"Maybe you volunteers are," she replies. "The rest of us, well, we just want to get by."

"By winning," he counters, still grinning as he licks the last crumbs of his lunch off his fingers.

Diya rolls her eyes and says, "I bet you were that kid in school that had to win all the prizes for everything too."

Glory thumps his chest proudly and says, "Of course. My family raised me to be the best, and they clearly succeeded."

"Ugh, watch out. I think Brutus' condescending jerkishness is contagious" she replies, also smiling.

Glory winks at both of us, leaning in to dramatically whisper, "I've heard there's a great cure known as getting his ass repeatedly handed to him by a bunch of older victors who he's previously disrespected."

"Then let's deliver it to him. For his own good, of course."

We're still laughing when the officials call us up for the third round.


	19. Chapter 19

Glory goes slightly pale when he sees another fifteen-foot tower standing in the middle of the large stage. As we are directed to stand in a line he mutters, "If there's a choice, you're going up there."

As it turns out there is a choice. This challenge, we are informed, will require one of our pair to be blindfolded. Their partner will stand on top of the tower and direct them verbally to collect and put together a twelve-piece maze puzzle on a tilt-table. They then, still blindfolded and using just our instructions, have to use the tilting table to roll a ball from the start to the end of the maze, where the pressure latch will release another bejeweled key.

For Diya and Arturus, this is easy. My friend from Five is confident and clever, and her partner from Two is happy enough to trust her instructions. Given Glory's dislike of heights and my limited physical strength, it makes sense for me to try and do the talking, and as long as I stick to simple two or three word runs, we should manage. While we prepare, Brutus and Whisper argue back and forth, neither looking particularly happy about the situation. Understandable, as Whisper makes _me_ look loud and talkative, and Brutus doesn't trust her not to make him look like an idiot running around blind.

The watching crowd all gasp and murmur in shock when Brutus wins the argument and joins myself and Diya at the top of the tower. His plan backfires quite quickly, however, as the puzzle pieces are heavy and after the first four Whisper is already visibly struggling to lift them. Glory and Arturus have no such issues, and both Diya and my instructions get them eventually through the puzzle. Arturus unlatches his key first, Glory only seconds behind, mostly due to my inability to give proper instructions. Whisper drops the tenth puzzle piece and tosses her blindfold to the ground as Brutus smashes his fists into the tower rail, bellowing in frustration.

The four of us continuing to the final round quickly make our way to the waiting area behind the stage, leaving the angry man from Two arguing with the officials. Lounging around in the chairs listening to the three of them joke back and forth is quite relaxing, especially since my (and, I suspect, Diya's) main reason for vying to win is now past. The two men, despite their inherent competitiveness seem to be good friends, and probably won't be too bothered at losing to the other. They were the winners of the 40th and 41st Games, both achieving their victory without any backstabbing or trickery on their parts. Both seem like decent people whose families pushed them to compete in the Games from an early age.

In Glory's case, this eventually led to him parting ways with his conniving parents, who saw him as their pathway to a rich and easy lifestyle. He does mention that he's stayed close to his sisters though. We all smile at this and it turns out all four of us have younger sisters that we love to death, though Arturus jokes that anyone trying to hug his youngest sister Honoria is likely to get a black eye for their trouble.

Arturus' family is unique in that he is the only Hunger Games winner that is related to another victor. His father Justus was one of the early victors from Two, and he and all of his siblings trained under their father' tutelage, though only he and his older sister Ursula actually went to the Games.

"I do worry about Honoria, though" he says as we delve into the pile of sweet pastries delivered by a white-clothed server. "She always has to be first even when it's in her best interest to let someone else have a chance to shine."

Glory gives him a long, measured look, and says, "I heard that your brother and sister didn't quite make the cut as your preferred volunteers, though they both fought well in your trials and came close."

"Yes," Arturus says with a small smile. "Adrena lost a few teeth when Lyme knocked her out cold, but luckily Dad was able to get them replaced. And Lycus is quite proud of the scars Halifax gave him. There's a particularly dashing one across his cheekbone he swears all the girls love."

The pastry drops from my fingers when I hear the name of one of the boys who died in my Games. None of the others seem to notice, though I find I can't eat any more now that I'm picturing a younger version of Arturus getting run through by Jasper's spear. I can't quite shake off the image as we are herded out for our final round, an obstacle course that starts on the wide boulevard, the streets lined with cheering spectators, and ends on the stage with us using the three keys we've collected to open the bejeweled chests for our final puzzle pieces. It's not really close in the end—I'm not as fast or strong as Diya and slow us down along the length of the course, and the additional time gives them the win by about a third of a puzzle. I don't really mind, and Glory doesn't seem too sad either. We all shake hands, Glory and I escape the stage for one final interview, where he does most of the talking, and we take a car back to the Victor's Spire before the press can catch up.

A large crowd of victors greets us in the lounge, cheering and backslapping to congratulate us on our effort. I manage to escape to the side, hiding behind the tall Seeder and Pelline, letting Glory enjoy his moment. As several people bring out drinks and music I make a successful run for the lift and manage to hide out for two hours with some peaceful tinkering until several people start banging on my door. I debate trying to ignore them until Glory yells that he has Beetee and will make him dance if I don't come out and join them. I take pity on my poor mentor and accept the pungent drink and invitation to join the dozen people crammed into Glory's apartment as they carry on the party into the early hours of the morning.

~xXx~

I wake to the sound of a wailing siren. Head pounding, I stagger to the window and see a large column of smoke billowing about three blocks away. I try to picture the Capitol from above and decide it's probably the large art gallery with the carved wooden entrance. It would certainly be more flammable than the surrounding office buildings. A second siren starts screeching and I decide that the first thing I'll make when I get home is some sort of comfortable sound-blocking headphones.

Our last official appearance in the Capitol isn't until tonight, sitting in the live audience for the reading of the Quell Card. I debate trying to improve on my four hours of sleep, but give it up as a bad job as the wailing continues. After two cups of strong coffee I go bang on Beetee's door, and he suggests a trip out to a workshop on the far side of town. He managed to escape Glory's party several hours ahead of me and seems to be in a good mood despite his sore hands.

Luda Masterson, whose workshop we visit, sells the lighting equipment used in many of the Capitol's clubs and fashion shows. While the components are built in Three, the overall set-up is decided and installed by her and her crew of artists and electricians. Her business isn't as rich as the Dixons or the Heavensbees, Beetee's other main sponsors that he trades work for Games money for, but she seems genuinely nice and assures us that we can count on her for a moderate sum in future years if necessary, in exchange for adding me to her on-call help line. With the Games only three months away it's good to have these arrangements sorted now.

We stop for lunch at a café I remember Clara taking me to and spend the afternoon in one of the parks watching a group of children play on a large "ship" construction lined with climbing bars, swings and slides. They all seem to be having fun and I suggest haltingly that maybe we could build something similar in Three.

"I tried that once," Beetee says with a rueful smile. "They wouldn't give me a building permit, even for up at the Village. Apparently playgrounds are too dangerous for District children, who might misuse them."

Of course. Not that many people would use them I suppose, as most children old enough to be outside without supervision pick up work at the factories or spend their time in extra classes trying to make the grade for the design rooms. In the poor end of town I've heard of kids as young as three slipping the fence to scavenge in the junkyard, risking serious punishment and breathing in the toxic smoke from the burn-offs as they collect the scraps others missed.

Dido is waiting for me when I get back to the Spire for my final outfit change. The president's speech and subsequent reading of the Quell card shouldn't take more than an hour at most, but we'll be outside and I don't have much faith in the tiny heaters installed amongst the seats. I thank my luck for Dido when she produces a thick woolen coat and an intricately patterned scarf for me to wear, and lets me leave my hair loose to cover my ears. As I won't be under the harsh stage lighting I need only minimal make-up and the bulky clothing renders any jewelry essentially pointless.

As we take our seats in the roped-off rows I see that as expected several of the others were not so lucky and many of the more attractive victors are already shivering in partially unbuttoned silk shirts or dresses that leave parts of their arms and legs bare. Beside me Beetee and Cupros at least have suit jackets on, though they both keep their hands stuffed in their pockets. On my other side I see that the District Four stylists, fed up with Morstan "ruining" their efforts by offering Denissa his suit jacket to keep her from freezing solid, have left him with just a thin shirt too. I'm almost tempted to offer him my scarf, but a blast of cold wind keeps me sufficiently selfish and silent. I do manage to kick the pathetic little heater by my feet a little more in their direction, earning a small smile from Morstan and Ava.

Even so, most of us are shivering as President Snow's speech comes to a close. The ending catches me by surprise—I was trying to work out a more efficient arrangement for lighting the stage and must have lost track of time—and I manage to stand and applaud just a few seconds behind everyone else. Not that I'd likely agree with anything that was said, if I had heard it, but I know what I'm expected to do. With a great fanfare, the anthem blares and a young boy steps forward onto the stage carrying a plain wooden box. As the view on the screen above the stage pans around, I recognize him as Caius Snow, the president's nine-year-old son, who presents his father with the open box full of carefully stacked yellow envelopes.

"Our first Quarter Quell reminded us that the sacrifices made by our children to continue this peace were the result of each district's choice to rebel. As such each district was required to select their tributes rather than allow random chance to determine them.'

He pauses to pull the second envelope, marked with a large number 50 on the front as the crowd murmurs in anticipation. I have no idea whether the cards were written when the Games were first created, as President Snow implies. Surely after the revision of the treaty, around the tenth or eleventh Games the cards would have needed modification, if not outright replacements. I've heard some people even suggest that the original Quell only happened as an extra attempt at quashing the next generation of rebels. Those who had been children during or just after the Dark Days, who took up the fight that their parents left off with a fresh wave of anger. From a few hushed conversations with my parents I know Three had at least one or two little uprisings, though they didn't ultimately achieve anything besides a few burnt-out factories and some graffiti on the streets. If anything the resultant job losses probably hurt our people far more than any shortages of products bothered the Capitol.

My mother was only one year past reaping age for that Quell, though I doubt there was any chance of her getting voted in if she had been younger. I remember her saying once that the female tribute was a scrounger from the poorest end of town and that dying in the Games was probably a mercy for the poor, sickly girl. The boy she and many others were told by market gossip to vote for was the son of one of the particularly cruel factory overseers, though it was another she didn't know that ended up going. I can't recall seeing anything about either of them, so they probably didn't get far.

I've never had anything to do with the victor from that year either. Diya described him as a thoroughly unpleasant and self-centered man that she avoids working with whenever possible. I have spoken briefly to Warrick, one of the other victors from Five, who she considers much better company than the Quell victor Dyon. This says a lot about Dyon to me.

On the stage, President Snow clears his throat as he tears through the top of the envelope and slides out the card inside.

"On the fiftieth anniversary of the Hunger Games, as a reminder that twice as many rebels were killed than Capitol citizens during the Dark Days, each district will send double the usual number of tributes. That is, each district will be represented by two boys and two girls selected as normal. Eligible volunteers will be permitted as usual, and, as always there will be a single victor. Let us now acknowledge the sacrifice that will be made by these brave young men and women to maintain this wonderful, peaceful nation and all the great things it stands for. To Panem!"

The majority of the crowd repeats the toast, crying out enthusiastically in reply. I notice our victors section is a little slower and less enthusiastic, though only three people have the guts to actually remain silent and in their seats. Dominic from Six may just be too drugged to realize what's going on, as he stays staring at the lights above the stage, smiling as the morphling we all know he's addicted to keeps him off in his own world. Down the far end, old Marcie O'Malley, District Twelve's only victor keeps her usual scowl firmly etched, her arms crossed; she made no effort to rise during the anthem or the toast, but then she has the excuse of being old with a bad knee. Four seats to my right, Denissa Flow has also remained seated with a scowl to match Marcie's, despite nudges from Ava and Mags on either side. The cameras sweep across the audience and the big screen above clearly shows us giving the expected standing ovation and the blatant defiance from at least one victor. As we start filing out, pressing together for warmth I wonder if Denissa has any more cousins, and whether they may find themselves as tributes in the 50th Hunger Games.

~xXx~

I manage to dodge the party crowd and get a proper night's sleep before we ship out in the morning. None of us talk much until the train has already pulled out of the Capitol station and is rolling through the rocky outskirts of District Two. I pinch Beetee's newspaper once he gets bored thumbing through it and flick through the stories, photos and countless advertisements. There's a large piece on the fire yesterday praising the valiant efforts of the emergency response team, which were able to save most of the art gallery. Apparently an adjacent block of offices took the brunt of the damage, though there were luckily no deaths or major injuries. So different to the last apartment fire in Three, where I remember hearing about people diving from upper story windows, suffering broken bones or a quicker death than burning, where over a hundred residents lost everything they owned and spent weeks doubling up with friends or sleeping on the streets while they waited for new housing to be available. Our emergency response team is made up of essentially untrained volunteers and has three small trucks. They were able to help catch a few small children that jumped or fell and kept the fire from spreading too much but our district's resources don't stretch to any more than that. I decide to look into anything Beetee or I can create to improve this for future incidents.

This turns out to be a few months too late as, four days after our return another power outage occurs. Unlike the previous one caused by a lightning strike, this one appears to be deliberate damage to the transformer box for the main factory power line. Usually this would backlog production for a few days, but a poorly-maintained surge protector overloads and causes a fire in the district's largest electronic screen manufacturer. By the time the emergency team is deployed the blaze has spread to three neighboring buildings, including one full apartment block. As per protocol, all resources are directed first towards keeping the Capitol property (the factories and store-houses) safe. By morning the usual fog layer is bulked by a layer of thick, greasy smoke hanging over the shell of the gutted screen factory and their melted remains of their fortnightly shipment in the connected store-house. The adjacent factory will take several weeks of repairs and the apartment building is still smoldering in the early drizzle. The bodies of five residents and eight factory workers are laid out along the path, nominally covered with sheeting, though many of them have smoke-blackened limbs sticking out. Workers are still recovering more bodies as Balia, Mother and I arrive and pass out the food and water we bought at the nearest open market. Father and Ezra immediately join one of the work-crews that are digging out a collapsed factory wall that possibly trapped more people. Beetee is already speaking to the leader of the emergency crew, undoubtedly offering whatever resources we have to help. Mayor Redden and his family appear soon after us, also with food and water for the rescue crews. They are accompanied by several of the district's Capitol liaisons, who stand about and make snide remarks about shoddy district workmanship and the inability of uneducated folks to follow simple evacuation plans. No-one wastes time pointing out that evacuation plans may not work when walls unexpectedly collapse.

By midday they've dug out another nine bodies, eleven survivors in various stages of hurt and have had to treat three members of the emergency crew for injuries incurred during the digging. Soon after the senior Capitol liaison arrives with official instructions: all non-registered members of the emergency crew are to leave the scene immediately. The Capitol is bringing in a team to investigate the cause of the fires and doesn't want any of us tampering with possible evidence. Further rescue and recovery efforts will have to wait until their investigation is complete. This evacuation apparently includes the injured and those grieving dead friends and relatives. The liaison, a middle-aged man with a puff of pure white hair and enormous side-whiskers bluntly informs them that it's not his problem where they go, only that they are to leave and may only return when he's finished. They aren't allowed to scavenge through the burned remains for clothes or personal items and are pointedly reminded that it is illegal to sleep on the streets and that there will be peacekeeper crews patrolling to prevent this.

Beetee and my entire family are also chastised for supplying food and water without an official charity permit (which we are not eligible for). Given the circumstances, we are merely given a warning, though any future attempts to distribute large amounts of basic supplies will apparently result in sanctions. My suggestion that we let the displaced families temporarily borrow the nine empty houses in the Village dies unspoken and we trudge back home in exhausted and saddened silence.


	20. Chapter 20

My late February trip to the Capitol starts inauspiciously with a five hour delay on the train. About half-way through our journey a derailed produce train blocks our path and we have to sit and wait for a relief engine and crew of workers from Six. I'm not permitted to leave my compartment, and once I finish the novel I'd brought with me, end up watching as much as I can out the window. Between the angle, the constant haze of rain and the slightly warped glass it is difficult to see what might have caused the accident, or indeed if it was an accident at all.

The power outage that ended up shutting down a full quarter of Three's factories for six days was determined to be deliberate sabotage, though there haven't been any formal charges laid yet. Another cluster of appliance manufacturers were forced to massively cut hours when consecutive shipments of steel failed to arrive from Two, though this was apparently due to delays _they_ had suffered in coal delivery from Twelve. The sudden loss of income for several thousand workers due to the cuts and the destroyed factories resulted in a notable increase in tesserae sign-ups despite the looming Quarter Quell, though this also proved somewhat useless when the grain delivery from Nine was less than half our usual quota. More shortages, apparently.

It's quite late by the time I reach the Spire and I decide to head directly for bed. Pointlessly, as I end up going several rounds of nightmares—repeatedly being burned alive in a maze of fire—and even after I wake each time, I can almost hear the screams of the people I know lingering on. I'm still groggy when Clara calls in the morning and end up getting her to repeat the directions for meeting up three times. We spend an hour browsing several clothing shops in one of the larger malls and even though I'm not really with it I let her talk me into buying a new coat and hat. She does the same, then pauses outside the mall cinema and brightly suggests we go see the newest movie. From the poster and the looping advertisement it's some awful-looking romance tragedy where a poor, simple district orphan plays matchmaker between two vapid-looking rich Capitolites. I figure I can catch up on my sleep. Clara has other plans, though and shortly after the lights dim she nudges my arm and leads me towards the side exit door.

"Quick," she hisses as she pulls off her coat and stuffs it in her shopping bag, donning her newly purchased replacement. I copy her, still only half-awake and it's not until she plonks my new floppy-brimmed hat on my head and starts leading me around the hall and out onto the street that I start to catch on. We keep our heads down for the first two blocks, walking leisurely arm in arm. Suddenly she turns into a narrow street and pulls me into a stumbling jog, leading me down and around a row of houses, over a low wall and through another alleyway to the rear of a run-down café. Once inside she leads the way to a dining room that's mostly filled with an enormous ornate wooden table. She grabs two of the chairs stacked around the wall and passes one to me, tossing her own floppy hat aside as she sits.

"Sorry about all that. My mom's been having me followed the last few weeks, ever since that fire. Of course I don't think she actually thinks I had something to do with it, more that I accidentally let something slip to someone I was talking to."

My head is still swirling and struggling to catch up. Fire? But there's no way she could have been in District Three and, smart as she is, I doubt she'd know how to blow the transformer like that.

"She knows someone knew something, anyway," Clara continues, "There weren't many people who knew that they stored the hard copies of their reports in those particular offices, and when her electronic records got hit the same day..."

Destroyed records? I still don't understand.

"At least no one got hurt," she says, and I finally realize she's not talking about the recent tragedy in my district. Belatedly I recall being woken by wailing sirens last time I was here and seeing the pictures of the partially burned art gallery a few blocks away from the Victors' Spire.

"That was…you…"

She gives me a mischievous grin and says, "Oh no, _I_ was nowhere near the place. I might have just mentioned the location to a few of my friends and accidentally uploaded a virus onto my mom's computer network around the same time. Thousands of files on potential rebels, sympathizers and other trouble citizens, gone."

I can't help but shiver. She's not talking about a harmless prank gone wrong. This is serious anti-government activity. If caught, Clara is probably safe due to her mother's protection, but for me or any of her other friends, even knowing about something like this could be enough for President Snow to retaliate. My father, brother and sister all have jobs to lose and there's nothing stopping them reaping Balia, or Malcon once he ages in.

By the same measure I can't betray Clara's friendship and trust. I can only assume that she's been pulled in to a group of would-be rebels, who encouraged her to go beyond the boundaries that she already pushed. My mind jumps immediately to Odelia's boyfriend of the last few months, Andronicus Dexter, the charming, intense man who seemed to have taken the lead of their circle of friends. As much as I like Odelia, I did wonder why a man like him would go for a girl who just turned eighteen last month and is seen as odd compared to "normal" Capitol citizens. As a pathway to the only child of one of Snow's key ministers, it would make a lot more sense.

Belatedly I wonder about the room we're sitting in now, as Clara seems sure that there's no chance of being overheard. I glance around, but there's no windows or decorations on the walls to give any hints. Besides the large table and stack of chairs, there's just an older TV hanging on the wall and a small stack of glossy magazines piled on the far corner of the polished wood.

Clara clearly picks up on that and says, "Don't worry, this place is owned by…by a friend. We can talk safely here. I know you were worried about that before."

I figure I'll have to trust her on that one. "I just…"  
"You do agree right? That this country is wrong, that the way the districts are treated, the way the Capitol is all about clawing your way to the top, then stomping everyone around you down. I don't know how any of you stand it!"

We stand it because we have to. Because if we try to speak out or stand up against the unfair system the system crushes us. If we have anything to lose, they take it away from us. It doesn't matter if I'm willing to sacrifice myself to make a point, because they won't take my life or money or freedom. I'm somewhat famous and probably useful and I have so many other people that I care about that they can target instead. I might be willing to sacrifice myself in the hope that the current system might fall, but I can't make that choice on behalf of my parents or my brothers and sisters. After mentoring the last Games, I'm not sure I could even make that choice on behalf of my tributes. I have no doubt that if I ever stepped out of line the Gamemakers would find some way to hurt the children of our district, and would make it obvious to me and them that it was entirely my fault.

Another part of my mind still whispers " _what if"_. I doubt even with Clara's aid that this little band of Capitol trouble-makers could overthrow President Snow and his entire government. But what if there were others, people in each district who were all willing to work together? I don't know that much about the other districts, but for Three we as a people will generally keep our heads down and try to stay out of trouble unless we're sure that we won't be alone. If a dozen people tried to whip up a riot, they would be ignored and probably informed on by someone looking for a promotion. But if a hundred, two hundred, a thousand were seen standing together then I expect the rest would follow along. Maybe if enough of us all around the country stand up at the right time and the right place something could happen.

That would require a lot of organisation without being discovered, and, as I discover over the course of the day, a massive re-think of opinions from a number of people who want to be involved. We end up staying in the little dining room of the café until past nightfall as people who share the enthusiasm for overthrowing the current order drift in and out. I recognize a few, though most are strangers to me and many of them immediately pull Clara aside for angry, whispered discussions about bringing in unapproved, ill-mannered district-folk to _their_ rebellion. From the responses of some other people I guess that I'm not the only victor with ties to this group. I also observe that many of them consider us victors as being somewhat more civilized than our regular district folk from our time in the Capitol. They are willing to deal with us as long as we're willing to stay quiet in the corner and do as we're told. Clara loudly points out that it's that sort of thinking that caused the divide that they are trying to fix. One man, probably in his thirties with a haughty, condescending attitude, laughs and says, "You can call a dog a child and dress them up and sit them in a chair, maybe teach them a few tricks, but they're still a dog at the end of the day. There's no point pretending anything else."

I pretend not to hear this, and instead make an effort to appear interested in the TV which is playing the evening news without sound. From what I can see there's been a tragic death in the Capitol, still surrounded by some mystery. I wonder silently which celebrity has overdosed this time as I hear a rippling silence overtake the room.

I turn in time to see Andronicus Dexter enter, flanked on his left by a tall, bulky woman with a shaved and heavily tattooed head, and Clara's friend Terry Coulter on his right. The handsome man who I correctly guessed was responsible for this little Capitol rebellion raises his eyebrows when he sees me tucked into the corner of the room, and leans over to mutter something to the scowling woman on his left.

Terry just grins and comes over to welcome me. I notice several of the people unhappy to see me also move away from Terry, and from a few of the others who look like they come from the poor end of town. It makes me wonder how many of the people are here because they believe in equality and how many just want to put themselves in power over the others. I also wonder whether people who are only here for their own self-interest will keep their silence if caught and questioned. In my case I have little choice. I suspect if I were to go to a government official within the next day and tell them everything I've seen and heard here I'd still be blamed for something, and I would lose the trust and friendship of the people here I do like. Far better to stay quiet on all fronts.

I'd already witnessed how convincing a speaker Andronicus is, though now that I'm listening for it I notice his rhetoric still implies that the new order he's insisting needs to be installed would treat the districts as second-class to the Capitol. When Clara gleefully announces how great it will be to see the end of the barbaric Hunger Games and equal opportunity for all regardless of where in Panem they are born, I notice several glances being exchanged at the far end of the table, though a subtle head-shake and hand gesture from Andronicus silences any disagreements. I even manage to return Clara's smile as she sits back down, face flushed with excitement. She doesn't realize they're using her. The two-and-a-half year age gap between us suddenly seems much greater, especially with her privileged and somewhat sheltered upbringing. Unfortunately I doubt she'll listen to me if I try to warn her, especially when I see Perry, Gamicus and Royan amongst the six newcomers that enter as a fat man named Yanus winds up his rant on the hardships he's suffered at the hands of the Capitol.

With over thirty people now crammed around the table, the room starts feeling more and more suffocating as each second passes. Another woman I don't know takes over to share her story—her rich husband left her for a younger woman, leaving her with unexpected debts that she was struggling to repay since she only wanted to work a few days a week, and somehow the new order they are proposing would stop people from making her suffer like this in the future—and I barely hold in a frustrated sigh. A part of me thinks that the only reason I'm not going to turn this crowd of petty, pathetic people in is because of the trouble it would cause the three or four of them that I like.

I don't notice that I'm shaking until the man beside Terry shoots a glare in my direction, and I start trying to plot a way to get outside for a few minutes that won't cause the entire room to turn on me. Thankfully Andronicus holds up his hand as the next person stands to describe their tragic circumstances and announces a break, followed by a series of smaller meetings with specific groups in one of the side rooms.

I find an open window half-way down the hall and stand beside it, gulping down breaths of cool night air and trying not to flinch as people pass me, several giving me annoyed glances for partially blocking the way. I don't know how long I stand there before Clara finds me, her face still flushed and her eyes glistening with excitement.

"Isn't it…are you ok?"

She reaches forward to take my arm and I pull away from even her touch.

"I…people…too many…close…I'll be…be fine…just…"

Her face falls for a moment, she nods once and when she looks back up at me I see the light in her eyes burning even stronger. "I hate what the Games did to you, but that's why we're fighting it, and the people that made them."

I'm still trying to decide whether to hint that most of these people don't actually share her ideals or care for the well-being of anyone outside of the Capitol walls when a familiar face appears. Plutarch Heavensbee gives me a brief nod and tells Clara that Perry was looking for her. My idealistic young friend flashes me a brief smile and immediately hurries back towards the meeting room. I figure Plutarch, like most of the Capitol folk, will continue on with their business without talking to me, and turn back towards the window as another sweet, fresh breath of air wafts in. I push myself closer to the frame as several groups of talking people go past, until there's a still silence that suggests I'm alone.

A part of me keeps thinking that now would be a good time to leave. Just slip away, pretend I heard nothing and remove my clearly unwelcome presence. On the other hand, if I do leave unannounced it would probably not end well for any of my Capitol friendships. A sudden cough behind me makes me jump about a foot in the air.

Plutarch gives me an almost apologetic smile and steps closer, unconsciously invading my personal space as usual. "So, Wiress, I didn't expect to see you here."

Him and everyone else, it seems. He glances around shiftily then leans even closer, so that he's almost touching me. I try to subtly move away but the window frame locks me in place.

"I would have expected to hear from our mutual friend that he'd spoken to you about joining us. The last I heard he said he wanted to keep you out of all this," he continues and frowns at my puzzlement. _He?_

"I…Clara…"

" _Clara_? Redfern? Oh…I erm…"

He backs off a little and glances around again, before leaning back in close and whispering, "I'd appreciate it if you forgot I said that. I, er, well. You may have noticed there's a few…ah…factions here, who until recently did their own thing. Andronicus brought us together, for better or worse, but there are some who believe-"

"What are you two whispering about?" Andronicus' heavily tattooed henchwoman asks loudly as she marches down the corridor towards us.

I freeze—thinking on my feet like this, especially when confronted has never been one of my strong points—but Plutarch gives the woman his wheedling smile and says, "I was just arranging some time for Wiress to visit our workshop the next time she is here. She and Beetee often provide invaluable insight into some of our technical issues and we are currently having problems with the wing adjustment motors for our new-"

"Save it for someone who cares Heavensbee. We're not here to make your family richer."

"No," Plutarch replies, still smiling. "However improved hovercrafts are a key advantage for the side that holds them."

I hear the unspoken suggestion that he might not be happy with _this_ side having them, but apparently she doesn't. She just gives me another distasteful sneer and summons me to follow her with an imperious beckon.

"Andronicus will speak to you now. Come along girl."

I make an effort to keep my face blank as I follow her back down the hall, still trying to puzzle out what Plutarch meant and why he was so surprised that Clara brought me here. She's the only person in the Capitol that both he and I know well, and the only other person outside of that that we both know...

My mind suddenly jumps back, nearly two years now, a conversation between a scared little girl and a kind man who were watching fireworks out of a window. There was a fire in the distance then too, and Beetee muttered something about "those kids" getting caught. And the next morning Plutarch Heavensbee came knocking on his door. I can only hope after seeing the attitudes of the majority here and hearing Plutarch's talk of factions that I haven't inadvertently brought down trouble for my mentor.

~xXx~

Andronicus Dexter is the only person smiling in the room, though I notice it doesn't extend to his eyes. The tattooed woman leans against the wall to his lift, still watching me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Two of the men who were making disparaging remarks about district people are also seated at the small table, staring me down with haughty disdain.

"So, Wiress Ling. District Three, victor of the forty-eighth Hunger Games. Why are you here?"

"I…Clara brought me-"

"Yes," he says, the forced smile dropping from his face. "She has been most impetuous and indiscreet."

"She knows I think-"

One of the men to the side snorts derisively. If I didn't struggle running more than three words together I'd round on him and tell him and the others what I think of their high and mighty attitudes, which are starting to really fry my patience. Then again, I might not. I generally kept my cutting comments unspoken even before there was an actual barrier.

The man who laughed at me raps the table with his knuckles and says, "I just don't think we can trust her, or the others. They're not like us. They lack any concept of what a civilized society looks like, much less be involved in running one. The only thing _we_ need the districts for is to provide foot-soldiers if it ever came to open war, and I think we all want to avoid that."

The other man and the tattooed woman both nod at this, though Andronicus frowns thoughtfully.

"The districts are important to us. Their industries are necessary to the smooth running of the entire nation, and in particular the Capitol. It wouldn't do to have those resources denied us and we most certainly do not want to make enemies of them. But I agree somewhat in terms of leadership and decision making. It is clear that changes need to happen in this great nation of Panem, but there will always be those who are made to give the orders and those who are better suited to obeying them."

"That's not what…what Clara and….and the…the others-"

"Clara Redfern is naively idealistic. Judging by the look on your face earlier, you don't suffer those flaws so deeply."

I shake my head slowly. I'm not foolish enough to believe that these people want equality for all. That doesn't mean I agree with them that it's the way things should be, though.

Andronicus sits back with a slight smile.

"No," he says slowly, "You have clearly shown you are not a stupid woman. You know what would happen if your presence amongst us were discovered by the current authorities?"

I nod again. "Regardless of…"

"Regardless of whether you were the one to notify them? Yes. I don't think Wiress here will betray us. We have all seen she possesses sufficient self-survival instincts and her abilities may provide us with an opportunity. You said you needed someone else for tomorrow night Livius?"

The quieter of the two men crosses his arms and shakes his head. "I need someone who can find a particular transmission box in the sewers without being seen, can get it open without triggering any alarms and cut precisely the correct wires at the right time without electrocuting themselves."

Andronicus looks back to me, one eyebrow raised mockingly. I know exactly what he's thinking: If I participate in any of their rebellious activities then there's no chance I'll turn any of them over. As long as they have a map of the sewers to glance over and someone who can describe the specifics of the transmission box to me, I do possess all the necessary skills that Livius listed.

It would be a point of no return for me though, and if something went wrong I have no doubt that Livius and Andronicus would throw me under a bus without hesitation. Then again, what choice do I have? If I say no then I expect I'll be kept deliberately distant from my Capitol friends and I'll be forced to watch them either fail and suffer, or see power transferred from one group of self-centered Capitol bigots to another. At least if I join with them I'll potentially have some say in how things go, and maybe even convince a few of them that us district folk are actual people who deserve fair treatment and opportunity.

"I can do all…all...that," I say as confidently as I can.

"You know your way around the sewers?" Livius asks mockingly.

"Give me five minutes with…with a map."

He blinks twice and sits back, unfolding his arms and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"I can get you a map and a half-hour with Heavensbee and Bartram. They'll explain exactly what you need to do. I'll find you a second as well. Someone who can carry your body somewhere less suspicious if you do manage to get yourself stupidly killed."

So much for confidence in my abilities. Then again, if I do somehow end up dead I guess I'd rather my body not be found in an incriminating position in a sewer.

I make arrangements for tomorrow, a midday meeting with the two men to have my task explained followed by a long, boring wait at a warehouse with one of these friendly rebels as my only company. Then, as the early evening shadows start to fall, my companion and I will have an hour to climb down into the sewers and follow the path I'll have hopefully memorized. The transmission box will apparently black out a three-block area, allowing others to get into a secure storage area and liberate something. It's clear that I'm not trusted with any more information than that, and again I figure the less I know, the less trouble it will likely be for me if I am caught. I hope silently as I make my way back out to where Clara and Perry are cuddling, that whoever is sent with me is sufficiently physically intimidating that if anything does go wrong I can possibly even claim they kidnapped me and forced me to help them. Always having a back-up plan helped keep me alive in my Games and it looks like the skills I developed there may remain necessary to my continued survival here too.


	21. Chapter 21

I struggle to fall asleep, my head still buzzing with dozens of whispered conversations and plots. After several hours of tossing and turning I give up and switch on the television in the lounge, curling up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate as I flick from channel to channel, hoping to find something mind-numbing enough to put me to sleep.

The last twenty minutes of a drama involving a complicated love pentagon gets me bored, though no more tired and I flip past the ending credits to the news. The main story still seems to be about the mysterious death I saw earlier, now surrounded with suggestions of a brutal double murder, the killer still roaming free. The dead couple, a man and his wife were apparently found mostly naked in their bedroom, both with multiple knife wounds. This included one which involved the removal of a rather prominent piece of the man's anatomy which was left pinned to the bedroom door by a bloody knife. Funny how they don't seem too keen on bloodthirsty killers when it's one of their own.

I hope that this doesn't mean a greater peacekeeper presence on the streets now that I'm going to be out breaking the law tomorrow evening. I mentally remind myself to call home in the morning to let them know I'll be staying an additional day again. Conveniently, there's an awards ceremony and gallery viewing for Capitol architects tomorrow night that Clara and I are theoretically attending. The plan loosely involves her making an appearance there, then sneaking out to meet me after I finish my jaunt in the sewers and for us both to return there, as though I had to leave temporarily for fresh air. Simple, easy, good alibi. I can already see several ways it could go wrong, but it's better than any other ideas we had.

I turn the TV off as they start showing footage of the bloody crime scene and watch out the window at the myriad of lights, bright and still, small and flickering, letting their erratic movements and the thrum of the city lull me eventually into a fitful sleep.

~xXx~

To my delight my companion for my long afternoon wait is a friendly and familiar face. Royan Coulter, who recently lost his job Mr Redfern's construction company after his brother was discovered supplying Clara with false ID cards. Both brothers grew up in the Capitol's "slums" and had lived on the streets in years gone past, stealing or running errands for low-level criminals to survive. Royan had got his job through Clara who he apparently met at some sculpture contest her father was judging. His artwork, built entirely from scraps collected (illegally) from various garbage dumps didn't win the prize but did ultimately lead him to a chance to escape poverty. Until now.

I listen quietly while he vents about the long hours, poor conditions and the fact he wasn't paid for the two months of work before he was fired. The company had been employed to construct the next three Games arenas, and while he'd mostly been working on the underground—a labyrinth of passageways and mechanical controls to allow climate manipulation and insertion of various mutts, as well as the launch-rooms I still find myself in in nightmares sometimes—he had got a chance to look around some of the workings and had overheard more in the planning stages.

He seems almost gleeful to let the highly classified information slip, and I'm just as happy to have it; our district could use any advantage we can get. So I let my mind absorb his comments, that the 51st Games will take place in a swamp-like biome whose foul stinking mud continually seeped through the ceilings into the underground passageways and kept gumming up the machinery. That the 52nd Games will probably be a generic forest that focuses more on interesting mutts than an unusual terrain (not that the builders got any information on the mutts, but he assures me the arena itself will be quite plain). More importantly, the 50th Games, the final hurrah for our current Head Gamemaker, who has already announced his retirement, will be a compilation effort, with tributes to the previous 24 years of Games.

Some of these will be obvious, Royan assures me, while others will be quite subtle, repeated concepts or ideas, alongside the more blatant copies of various mutts, plants, weapons or terrain. He does refuse to go into specifics as he suddenly remembers that telling someone, especially a victor who will be mentoring tributes in these Games could get him in serious trouble. More serious, he thinks, than getting caught in the sewers while sabotaging Capitol property.

As the long shadows I can see through the small window start to fade into the general night Royan stands and stretches out, offering me a hand up. A few deep breaths calms me enough to stop my gloved hands shaking and once I pull the black mask over my face I feel surprisingly ready. A gentle clink and a slow creak break the silence as Royan opens the access cover in the corner of the warehouse and flicks a small flashlight on as he leads the way down the steps. I follow, my footsteps ringing gently against the metal stairs until we reach the hard concrete walkway.

Calling up my mental map, I take the lead, clicking my own flashlight on as we make our way through the dark, foul-smelling tunnels. For the most part it's bearable; neither of us is tall enough to hit the ceiling, the face-masks help block the worst of the smell and there are surprisingly few rats. Twice we have to change routes to avoid workers, though Royan assures me with a whisper that they are almost certainly avoxes and wouldn't be able to tell anyone about us even if they chose to.

The transmission box is exactly where the map marked it and, once I quickly detach the alarm trigger, opens easily to the expected tangle of wires and breakers.

"Three minutes," Royan whispers when I glance at him, little beads of sweat starting to form around the eye-holes of his mask. He counts down the time while staring at his watch and as soon as he says go I slice through the three appropriate wires with a rubber-handled cutter, then quickly pull a plug from one breaker link and jam it into another. He flinches as the box throws sparks, then heaves a sigh of relief as the whining hum of electricity goes silent.

"Ok, good, anything else? Otherwise let's go."

I nod, glancing over my work once to make sure there are no hairs or scraps of clothing left to identify us, then follow his bulk back through the twisting tunnels, nudging him left or right as the necessary turns arrive. Royan insists on going up the stairs to the warehouse first in case the peacekeepers have somehow traced where the blackout started and the possible route through the sewers to here. I try to explain that it would be nearly impossible, but decide to save my breath for keeping up with him as my scarred right lung starts aching from the effort.

We quickly toss our gear into the waiting empty bags, both of which he hefts with ease, and leads me out, down the road to a waiting car two blocks away. The driver, the surly tattooed woman from last night sneers at our relieved smiles and waves at us to get in, jamming her foot on the gas pedal before I've even reached for my buckle.

"So, all good for everyone else Cordenia?" Royan asks cheerfully.

"Silence," she snaps back, glaring at him and me both. " _She_ isn't cleared to know anything more and you would do well to not ask so many questions."

Once she returns her focus to driving Royan rolls his eyes and snubs his nose in her direction, forcing me to mask my laugh with a cough. This earns us another glare in the mirror, and I spend the rest of the ride watching out the window in silence.

~xXx~

I wince as a bag hits my stomach the moment I step out of the car.

"Quickly, don't stand around gaping," the nasty Cordenia hisses, shoving me aside. She grabs the arm of the man who shoved the bag at me and pulls him and Royan away whispering furiously. Curious, I pretend to struggle with the bag clip as I try to listen in, until a familiar voice calls my name.

"Wiress, I'm glad to see you back safe. No, not here, I'll take you somewhere you can change. We need to move though."

Clara's small hand clamps around my wrist and leads me away from the car port, up a narrow flight of stairs into a well-lit hallway and into a bedroom full of animal-print drapes.

"In here, Tessie won't mind."

She helps me change from my plain, practical clothing into the sheer silk dress, then nudges me into a chair and hands me a pair of complicated lace-up sandals while she scoops my hair into some sort of twisted knot.

"I know the blackouts worked as planned," she murmurs as she leans over my head, jamming jeweled pins into my hair. "But I haven't heard from Perry yet and he promised to call the moment he was clear. I just hope-"

She breaks off as a loud hammering echoes through the hallway. We both peer out the bedroom door and Clara gasps, running forward to help Terry Coulter as he staggers in, his eyes wide with fear. As he turns I see a smear of blood across his cheekbone, though there's no obvious wound. Clara reaches out to check it and he grabs her hand so hard that she yelps.

"Not mine," he gasps out. "Where's…Cordenia? Need….help."

The man who came to check on the noise scurries back to find the tattooed woman while Clara helps Terry sit against the wall.

"Is Perry ok? Tell me, please-"

Terry puts a shaking finger to her lips to silence her.

"He's…he'll be fine. It's Gamicus…we should have…been clear."

He takes a few deep breaths and clenches his fists, trying to get his body under control and his thoughts in order.

"We were…well, we were somewhere we weren't legally allowed to be, obtaining something. I won't say more than that. The PKs should have been busy dealing with the smokebombs but I guess they saw us or something, coming out. One of them shot at us, at the car as we were driving away. Gamicus got hit, down here," he gestures generally to his stomach and swallows heavily before continuing.

"I mean, we can't take him to a hospital, at least not yet. And the car, they'll have traced the car"

He sits back upright, arms reaching for support as he tries to stand. Clara helps drag him to his feet and waves me over to help support Terry's other side.

"Do you have the car?" she asks as she unlatches the door. "Can you take us there? I'll think of something. I'll say I was mugged and Gammy tried to protect me. He's my cousin, I have to help him!"

We stagger out the door, ignoring the loud voices coming down the hall behind us. I know they'll try and stop us, and it seems Terry does too as he slams the door shut and kicks a tub full of weedy flowers across the front, before leading us down to the badly-parked car.

I glance back as the engine roars to life and Terry powers us away to see a crowd of angry faces yelling at our retreating vehicle. "They wouldn't save him," Terry mutters dully as he drives. "I know it. Andronicus would use his death to whip up more support, but he'd still be dead."

Clara starts to object, then stops, eyes still wide but starting to lose some of that innocent fervor. I wonder if she's finally starting to realize where people like us stand in the eyes of the rebels she's been helping.

Terry insists on parking a few blocks away just in case someone did recognize the car's number-plate and it takes both of us to stop Clara attracting attention by running. The man at the door refuses to let us in and demands to know why Terry didn't bring Cordenia as instructed. A loud thud and a squeal of pain is followed by the door swinging open and Clara throws herself at Perry, who is rubbing his fist. The door-guard he punched sits up groggily rubbing his jaw.

"You'll regret that Gould," he slurs, but doesn't stop us as we hurry inside. We follow the narrow, brightly-lit corridor to a large open room full of high metal cabinets and round wooden tables. Gamicus is curled in the far corner, a heavy roll of cloth pressed against his stomach. From the doorway I can see it's already soaked through with blood. He moans, his face unnaturally pale as Clara hurries to his side.

"Go, all of you. Go, leave me. They're coming."

"We have to get you out of here, get you to a hospital," Clara counters, trying to drag him upright. He groans again as she tugs on his arm and huddles tighter to the blood-soaked cloth. From what I've seen in the Games, unless he gets help soon he can't afford to lose much more blood. I force myself to walk over and kneel on his other side, hoping that some brilliant thought will jump into my mind that will help save him. I don't look up immediately when I hear a clatter of running feet coming down the hall, assuming it's more of the Capitol rebels come to help their friend.

"Everyone FREEZE!" an authoritative voice commands. Three peacekeepers in their white body armor march in, weapons already drawn. There's a moment of shocked silence before Perry, half-hidden in the darker corner of the room, wrenches something from his pocket and fires. I dive to the floor, clapping hands over my ears as the gunfire erupts, and from the corner of my eye see two of the white-clad men drop. The third, on one knee behind one of the metal cabinets, returns fire, and Perry roars in pain as a bullet slams into his right arm. Swapping hands, he continues to return fire until his gun clicks empty. The peacekeeper, who dived back into cover re-emerges, now the only one armed.

"NO!"

I watch helplessly as Clara dives in front of her boyfriend, arms spread wide. "Don't shoot, I'm-"

Her cry is cut short as three bullets rip through her chest. I cover my face with a scream as Perry's head explodes into a gush of red and gray, spattering me and Gamicus. It takes all my willpower to look up, where three more peacekeepers are standing in the doorway, arguing. I guess they didn't know Perry's gun was empty and that he wasn't a threat. A gasping, gurgling sound draws my attention and I crawl across the floor to Clara, her red-brown hair, lightly freckled skin, and white-and-gold dress drenched horribly in blood. She tries to raise her hand and her eyes, wide with pain, lock on mine as she tries to speak. She manages three gasping, choking breaths and as I bend closer trying to think of some way to stop the bleeding I hear her force out a whisper.

"Free."

I hold her body until strange hands drag me upright and force me against the wall, looping my wrists with painful metal cuffs.

As they lead me out of the building I hear a dull voice behind me say, "No good, he's gone too. Just the three of them."

~xXx~

I finally notice the blood on my hands as they are released from the cuffs and I throw them out to catch my fall against the shiny silver table. Inhaling sharply, I realize the smell of it is all over me, and the unpleasantly familiar panic rises, blotting out everything else.

After some minutes or hours I realize someone is talking at me, or about me.

"I don't know if she's just being stubborn or she really has gone mad, but she hasn't responded to a single question and keeps going on about allies and Careers, bloody knives and weasels running around bushes."

The world starts to come back into focus, a tall man with short, dark hair and cold eyes glares at me.

"Maybe with the right encouragement-"

"No, not yet," another voice replies, also male and cold and strangely familiar. "I don't need this getting any more out of hand."

Dark-hair in front of me sighs and slams his fists into the table, making me jump.

"One last time," he growls at me. "And I suggest you answer this time. What do you know of this group of criminals? Why were you with them? What were they planning? Who else was with them?"

My mind swirls, and to my astonishment an answer falls in place. It was a good alibi after all.

"I..I was with Clara…we were at…at…architect's gala. She heard…heard Gamicus…cousin…hurt, went to see. Her parents…didn't…didn't want, we snuck out…he was…bleeding and then…guns firing-"

"Enough lies. You were all involved in the robbery of a highly classified military development facility. We traced the car that was seen fleeing the scene of the crime. You were involved in a shootout that resulted in the death of five Capitol citizens, and the severe wounding of another."

"I…not…I wasn't…just went…with Clara…Gamicus hurt.."

He leans forward and snarls into my face, "Who else was involved?"

"I…I don't know."

Belatedly I realize they must have Terry, or at least know he was involved as they traced his car. Probably the man who was guarding the door too. I remember the peacekeeper saying there were three of us, so there's no point trying to protect them.

"I…Terry Coulter…found us…told us…took us there. Other man…stranger…door. Perry-"

The image of his head exploding, spattering me in blood and brains resurfaces and I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms, letting the pain help clear my mind.

"Who were they with before that? You know them, who are their other friends?"

I'm half-tempted to give them Andronicus' name but that would drag Odelia into the mess and I like her too much for that. I let my body heave with another round of sobs, a part genuinely grieving for my dear young friend, while the other part, the darker part helps me find another good answer. I settle on someone they must surely already know about.

"I…Terry's…brother Royan…others….don't know names…didn't like me…didn't like district...district people."

"More lies!" my interrogator snarls again. "I will have it out of you, one way or the-"

"Perhaps she is telling all she knows," the cold voice interrupts, and suddenly I realize why it's familiar.

President Snow walks slowly around into my view. "It's not unbelievable that Wiress here was merely following the young lady she was told to follow. Maybe she does know more, maybe she doesn't. If it weren't for certain events yesterday we might hold her and encourage her to find out more, but as it stands-"

He shakes his head slowly. "No, I can't afford any more victors being seen out of line. You people should be grateful; you only live through my mercy and the mercy of our founders. We give you a chance to better yourselves, to provide an example to the ill-educated unruly masses that inhabit the districts, that even they, with acceptance of our guidance and adherence to our laws, can become civilized.

Instead you insist on throwing it away to pursue your childishly stubborn insistence of freedom and independence. Let me tell you something Miss Ling, there is no such thing as freedom. We all exist to serve this nation. Those of us who understand that better and who have been graced with the knowledge and authority to rule live here, to help guide others to their proper place."

His words echo alongside the whisper in my mind, Clara's last word, gasped out with her dying breath. _Free_.

He rubs his head again. "I have let you victors have too much leeway. I mistakenly assumed, as part of your transformation through the Hunger Games, you had come to understand a part of this. Rest assured I will not continue to make the same mistake in future. Vivianus, prepare her for release. Have your men take her to the train station and send her home on the first one. I assume you realize you will no longer be returning here for your regular visits."

He turns and walks towards the heavy metal door, hands clasped behind his back, and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The darker part of me is still holding back the memory of the deaths of my friends, and for now I'm just glad I've escaped any other punishment.

"Miss Ling." Snow's voice, from the doorway crushes down my internal relief. "I trust you will not be mentioning the details of tonight's events with anyone?"

I nod slowly. He turns to my interrogator, who is still glaring at me, grinding his jaw.

"Vivianus, I'm sure if Miss Ling remembered any more details she would, as a good honest citizen of Panem, share them with you. But perhaps we should leave her with a little reminder to keep better company in the future? I believe it is commonly held that a Capitol citizen is equal in worth to a thousand district rabble. If you would be so kind as to contact Pontius Vellum and have him add an additional five thousand entries to the District Three reaping bowl for the name of Balia Ling?"

He paces back to look me in the eye, and to my shame I unconsciously cower from him.

"Perhaps your sister will not be reaped. After all there are a lot of people in your district and I hear that tesserae rates have increased alarmingly since the factory mishap. Perhaps she will be reaped, but some brave volunteer will surface and she will be freed. Perhaps she will be reaped and you will mentor her, likely to her death if your district's record is anything to go by. Regardless of the outcome, I hope this will serve as a reminder to who your loyalty belongs to. I shall see you in a few months for the Games."

With a final nod he stalks out, leaving me afraid and broken once more. As I feared, my actions have brought down the wrath of the Capitol upon the one person I care most about in the world. I have also lost three of the few friends I had here, a good, kind, naive girl who only wanted to make the world a better place and two young men who tried to help her. Staring once more at the red smears on my hands I know that even if someday I find freedom from the Games and the Capitol, I will never feel free of the guilt.


	22. Chapter 22

I manage to hide all signs of what happened before I step off the train in Three. The peacekeepers, after some debate, decided to allow me to return to my apartment to clean up and change clothes before heading to the train station as they didn't want my appearance to cause a panic. There is something about their words and actions that niggles in my brain, but every time I close my eyes to try and focus on it I see Perry's head exploding, Gamicus bleeding out, Clara gasping her last breath. I can only hope that the rest of the group manage to get away, and that Terry Coulter and the doorman don't give up too much information when questioned.

My father meets me at the station to help carry my bag. Like me he's a naturally quiet person, comfortable with long silences and his own thoughts. He doesn't seem to notice anything, and I decide not to tell him. It's bad enough that I know I've quite possibly condemned our precious little Balia to death in a few short months. I don't think I'd be able to function if my family turned against me now too.

I make it through the next few days in a haze of unawareness, speaking only when someone asks me something (I have a feeling I miss a few attempts at conversation judging by peoples' reactions when I do reply) and barely sleeping, my nights haunted by bloody bullet-wounds and echoing whispers promising freedom.

On Saturday morning Beetee cautiously calls me up from the workshop to the kitchen in my house, where my parents are waiting. "Wiress, I thought you should know…I just got word from Plutarch Heavensbee, of all people."

He hands me a print-out of a news story and I choke back a sob as I see the photo—Clara Redfern with her boyfriend, cousin and friend Terry Coulter, alive and happy at the fairground. The headline—a tragic car accident that claimed four young lives—and the follow-up article reminding people to take care when driving seem to blur in front of me. Apparently the tragedy occurred late last night.

"Plutarch asked me to pass on that to the best of his knowledge it was just the four of them, and that none of the others you might know were hurt. Also something about a brother who may or may not have been involved that seems to have disappeared."

Royan. I can only hope he disappeared by his own choice rather than at the hands of the peacekeepers.

"I…I…" I swallow heavily, but the words seem well and truly stuck behind a wall I thought I had built a door in.

I stop trying to force my thoughts through and stand, swaying slightly. I realize I can't remember the last time I ate, though that's hardly important now. Shakily, leaning against the walls for support I make my way to the door and head outside. I'm half-way to the cemetery before I realize where I'm going and it's not until my shin scrapes the side of a stone marker that I notice the paper still scrunched in my hand and that I'm only wearing socks.

I end up sitting curled against the stone, huddled against the cold morning air, rocking back and forth as my mind tries to recalibrate. After some time I notice the two shiny black shoes on the edge of my vision and look up to Beetee standing a few yards away holding out a blanket.

I shake my head at the offer, glancing at the sky in the slim hope that the smog layer might thin enough to let some sunlight through. As I shift position my legs cramp painfully and I start shivering uncontrollably. After a few seconds thought I take the blanket. Beetee doesn't say anything, just helps wrap me in it and sits down beside me, leaving enough space between us for both of our comfort. Once my teeth stop chattering I unclench my hand and smooth out the piece of paper, fingers brushing over their faces.

"You shouldn't feel guilty," Beetee says softly. "It's not like you could have done anything to stop it and it's not your fault that you weren't there."

But I was there and I could have done something. Stopped Clara from running to Perry, thrown myself in the path of those bullets. Gone to the peacekeepers and President Snow with everything and tried to beg for mercy.

"I-"

I take a few calming breaths, trying to decide what to tell my mentor and whether to mention the group of rebels whose schemes I let myself get caught up in, or whether I should just play along with the official story and let him think I'm mourning the sudden and accidental death of my friends.

In the end it all comes pouring out in half-stuttered sentences, the whole truth from my first suspicions to the meeting to the shootout and President Snow's retribution against my little sister. At first he doesn't say anything, just lets me spill what words I can manage, lets me stumble my way through without trying to catch my sentences and hold them for me until my brain doubles back for the lost words.

Once he realizes I'm done he shuffles around in front of me and takes my hand, holding like my father might when he wants me to listen. "It's still not your fault Wiress. You need to remember that. Sometimes things happen that we can't control. A lot of the time actually. I don't know if…well. I don't know how things will go with this group now, but all we can do is stick together and-"

He cuts off mid-sentence, eyes wide as he stares over my shoulder. I turn, gasping as my legs cramp again from the sudden movement and look up into Balia's tear-stained face.

"How….how long…"

"Have you been standing there?" Beetee finishes for me.

Balia swallows heavily. "Long enough," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "You weren't going to tell me."

"I.." I'd spent the last few days debating back and forth whether to say something, trying to decide whether she would rather know how bad her odds had become. I hadn't made up my mind, too afraid that she would blame me, hate me, push me away. Instead she sits beside me and throws her arms around my shaking body, burying her head against my shoulder as she always used to do.

"Beetee is right. It's not your fault. You were trying to make things better."

Instead I made everything so much worse.

"It's ok," my little sister tells me as I hold her tightly. "I'm not afraid. Well, not too much. I already thought they might do this to me one day, you know, victor's little sister."

I'd been trying to ignore that. I thought if I played nice they would have had no reason to go for her.

"If it's not me, then it will be another girl. Someone else's sister. As long as the Games continue it will always be someone dead. I don't blame you for trying to stop that."

She's right, I realize. I hug her tightly again and don't let go until she starts to squirm. She wipes my eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, which almost makes me smile and she rolls to her feet with enviable ease, offering me and then Beetee a hand up.

"It's warm inside," she says as she takes my arm and starts leading me gently back towards the house. "If I do…you know…I don't want my mentor to be sick from the cold."

I glance at Beetee, who is staring at the ground red-faced. I doubt my sister meant to remind him of the last Games, but for some reason he still seems to blame himself for getting sick and being unable to go with me.

The walk back takes a lot longer than expected—I hadn't noticed how far I'd gone, but it's nearly half a mile. My feet, mostly numb from the cold only twinge occasionally as stones in the hard dirt dig in through the woollen socks. As the house comes into view Balia pulls up short.

"I almost forgot to mention why I came after you both. There was a phone call just after you left. From one of the Gamemakers. One of the other victors died and they want you all to go to the funeral."

"It is the tradition," Beetee answers, glancing briefly at me. Probably trying to decide if I'm stable enough to get dragged in front of a camera. I'm not sure I am, but I know I don't get a choice in the matter. "Did they say who?"

Balia frowns and shakes her head. "Not who, but it should be all over the TV. The others will know."

As soon as we get inside my father scoops me up and carries me over to the couch, where my mother wraps my now-bleeding feet in warm towels. Over their shoulder the screen shows a reporter standing on a District Four beach talking about the tragic loss of one of our youngest and most vibrant celebrities. The footage cuts to the Victor's Village, where Mags and Nimia are sharing a shawl, Morstan is staring at his hands and Ava is leaning against the tanned body of a much younger man, who holds her and brushes her long hair from her face.

They all look upset, which is somewhat surprising since I know that none of them liked the arrogant Denissa much. Still I suppose she was one of their own. Slowly I start to thaw; my feet in particular feel like they are on fire until Balia brings me some painkiller tablets and she sits with me as the story unfolds. Denissa was actually in the Capitol, apparently partying with some friends there when a balcony railing she leaned against gave way. They don't show any photos of her body after the supposed thirteen-storey fall, and as they move into another tribute which re-hashes some of her more memorable Games moments I start to put things together.

The mysterious double murder the day before Clara and the others died, that was all over the news. The sudden silence about it afterwards, Snow's reluctance to have "any more" trouble with his victors that weekend. Even the detail about the bit that got cut off the male victim and pinned to the doorframe would make sense if half of the stories about sponsor deals for the attractive victors are true.

This time I do decide to stay quiet about what I know. There's no reason to frighten my family any further and if Beetee's paying attention he'll work it out anyway. He takes care of calling back and arranging the details. The two day trip, including the three hour ceremony passes in a blur after Beetee arranges for my Capitol psychiatrist to send out some new medication. It lets me disconnect from the world scarily well and helps prevent any nightmares at night, though it ruins my ability to remember any details and I stop taking it the moment we head back home. I do stash the remaining pills in my travel bag to take with me to the Games in a couple of months' time, just in case.

I join my family in the living room that night, the last effects of the drugs fading away, and as my mind slowly wakes up I notice Balia isn't there. Malcon is in his favourite corner of the couch nearest the heater, face scrunched in concentration as he carefully colors in the pictures in his book. Usually Balia sits with him, either finishing homework or reading whichever princess story she's got her hands on that week. My parents—engaged in what appears to be a serious chess match—don't appear to have noticed anything unusual.

I sit down next to my little brother and wait for him to notice me while I read. After ten minutes he finishes filling in the sky of his picture—always perfectly neat between the lines and completely filled before he can stop—and turns to look up at me. His eyes slide from vacant to nearly focused as he recognises me.

"Wiress, trees. Like your trees. This will be…"

He trails off as he rummages through the box at his feet for a green pencil.

"Malcy," I ask before he can start on his next color, "Do you know where Balia is?"  
He nods and leans over to whisper, "Visiting Grandma. Secret. Back soon."

Before I can follow up he starts on the green leaves in his picture and I give up any hope of conversation with him for the next few hours. Visiting Grandma. I doubt Malcy is aware enough to remember that both our Grandmas are dead, my father's mother several years before I was even born. The only way for Balia to visit them…

Walking softly to not disturb my parents I slip out the front door, tugging on a thick coat from the rack on the way out, though it's not too cold for two hours past sundown. I find Balia about a quarter mile out from the Village, keeping to the shadows as I watch the little light on her wrist glow a clear path through the stone markers. She passes my hiding spot, gasping heavily from the effort of her staggering run and for a moment I'm afraid she's being chased by someone. Then she stops and leans on one of the smoother stones, gulping down breaths of our cold, greasy air. Once her shoulders stop shaking she sits and stretches out her trembling legs, mumbling to herself.

"-just another few hundred yards. Not too far. You can do this."

I creep closer, letting the whisper of wind cover the sound of my footsteps, stopping just ten yards away from her as she pushes herself upright.

"Ok, I did nearly a mile tonight, so tomorrow I'll go-"

Another gust of wind tugs the hood off my head and lets my hair fly free and she turns at the soft rustling of cloth, wrist-torch blazing suddenly into my eyes, blinding me. I fall back with a soft cry that is lost in her scream and when I eventually blink clear of the dazzle spots I see her lying sprawled on her back groaning and clutching her chest.

My brain freezes— _she's been stabbed from behind and is bleeding out and it's all my fault_ —until she starts laughing.

"Wiress, you…you scared…how did you sneak up on me like that?"

Suddenly it all comes together and I don't know whether the tears on my face are from sadness or pride. She's doing the only thing she can do with the knowledge of her possible fate: Training.

I wipe my face and offer my brave little sister a hand up. "Slowly, quietly, moved with the…the wind."

She nods like a student receiving great wisdom from a senior instructor and I pull her tight for a quick hug. "Cupros," I tell her, "Tomorrow after school. He's the best…best fighter we have. Beetee and I will…will teach you traps, snares. You ask us…anything, we'll tell you."

She squeezes my hand and whispers, "Thank you. It's the only thing I could think of, and maybe it will help me be less scared."

She pushes away from me suddenly and gives a glimpse of her old smile. "Race you to the house"

She starts running before I can reply and, despite her previous exhaustion, beats me by a good thirty yards. I clutch my chest, the old wound that's only healed on the outside, as we stop in the entrance hall to take off our shoes and coats.

"Please, don't tell mother and father, at least not yet. I don't want them to worry."

I nod my agreement, though I suspect it will be impossible to hide for the full two and a bit months until the Games begin.

~xXx~

While Balia starts running regularly and learning the few fighting basics Cupros can teach her I spend my afternoons watching replays of old Games, notebook in hand. From my conversation with Royan on that fateful day I know that the 50th arena will feature tributes to the previous 24 years of Games and I want a comprehensive list of everything that might be included. Sometimes, when I end up watching later into the night my sister joins me, occasionally asking questions about why a tribute might have done something, what they might have been thinking. I try to answer as honestly as I can.

Very quickly I notice she is much more bothered by the pain and suffering and death than I am. I honestly can't remember if I was always this way or whether the arena hardened me. Was my inner monster always a part of me? Did I find it and give it a home, or did I simply unlock the door to its cage?

It takes my parents nearly two weeks to catch us out and I spend that night apologizing over and over for bringing this down on us while my mother holds me and tells me that it's not my fault. Soon the others join in with our desperate plan, Ezra practices wrestling with her (I remember belatedly that he'd been in a few fights in school). Laney starts running with her to lose the last of her baby weight. Beetee, at my father's suggestion, orders in some personal fitness equipment from the Capitol, claiming that his sickness last year inspired him to get into shape. Officially it's illegal for prospective tributes to train for the Games, but since the kids in Districts One, Two and Four get away with it I suspect we can too as long as we have reasonable deniability.

I contact Balia's school and try to talk the head teacher into re-starting the long-abandoned gym classes. He refuses, claiming that the school's budget relies on the income they gain from the students' scavenging efforts. He also informs me that it's not my place to interfere with education facilities. I try the head-teacher at the closer school which Malcon attends, who is much more willing to compromise, especially when I suggest that Beetee and I can come offer extra classes in engineering and electronics in exchange. My sister changes schools the next day and adds an additional three hours to her weekly exercise program.

By the time reaping day comes around I can see the difference. At nearly fifteen, and just about topping 5'4", Balia now moves with more grace and strength than I ever did. Her limbs, while scrawny, still look stronger than those around her and there's at least a hint of assuredness in her eyes. She knows that she has done all she can to prepare, and while she may be afraid and about to go to her death, she'll at least have a chance at going down fighting.

It takes us a long time to detach Malcon from her hand as she parts from us to sign in, though once separated he goes quietly with Ezra. Both Balia and I tried several times over the past week to try and explain to our little brother that she might have to go away and that she might not come back. Every time we said this he shook his little tousled head and insisted that "Wiress went away, Wiress came back. Balia goes away, Balia comes back."

I repeat that to myself as I mount the stage, shivering through my too-thin silk shirt as I take my seat. The early morning showed some promise of sunshine, but by the time we left the house the sky had turned solidly gray and if anything has only got darker. Usually my gut instinct provides a good feeling for how an event might go—it warned me about bad fires and my own reaping and, once I thought back, about that awful night with Clara. Today I can't tell as I've been edging on nausea and unable to sleep well for the past week. Perhaps it's a really big warning that everything will go wrong, or perhaps my baseline is too high to judge.

Gloria Goldacre, our Capitol Escort bustles over, this year wearing a dress made of sharp triangles of silver mesh. Her fingernails—three inch long silver talons—stand out nearly as much as her spiky false-eyelashes.

"Wiress, hello, hello, it's just wonderful to see you again. And Beetee too, so good, yes, I'm so excited to finally work with you. And Cupros of course, though he won't be mentoring this year? No, of course not."

Beetee winces as she shakes his hand. He did get to meet her briefly while we were in the Capitol for the Quell Card celebrations, and had agreed privately with my assessment of her—an improvement over the cruel Carmenius Fallow, but still frustrating in her own way. Cupros grunts at her and ignores the outstretched hand. We were all informed that each district would still only field a maximum of two mentors for the four tributes. It was decided that it would be an unfair advantage for the Career districts and others who had been more successful. As opposed to their usual unfair advantages of training and popularity.

Then again, my own sister has spent the last two months acting like a Career so I suppose I can't complain too much. I wonder silently as Mayor Redden makes his way forward to start the opening speeches, how many of the Career kids started their training as an insurance policy in case they were ever reaped rather than as a plan to volunteer in the future. Perhaps if more kids from our district did train, even a little bit they might have a better chance of surviving in the future. As Redden introduces the three of us past victors I look out over the sea of scared faces, the rows of scrawny bodies and pallid, ashen skin from breathing our polluted air. Then again, maybe not.

Before I know it Gloria is at the microphone, all bubbly and ear-piercingly shrill as she tries to whip up some excitement for this special anniversary Hunger Games.

"We will alternate now, choosing one girl then one boy," she explains, "All of whom will have the honor of representing District Three in this historic event which will be remembered for generations to come."

I have no doubt that, unless we manage another miracle, the Capitol will have forgotten most of our tributes from this Games before the year is out. With a clattering of her spike-heeled shoes, Gloria bustles over to the left-hand table and shoves her talon-nailed hand into the bowl. She swirls it once before pinching out a single slip of paper. Dimly I realize my own hands are clenched so tight that my whole body is shaking. I try to rationalize again how many slips there are, and how there's still a good chance that Balia's name isn't on the chosen ones as our silver-clad escort clears her throat daintily and steps back to the microphone. A part of me is so certain that it's Balia that I nearly fall of my seat in shock when Gloria calls Seebee Lau to her death.

The unlucky girl makes her way from the very back of the crowd. Eighteen, small for her age. The girl makes it up the steps without any tears or obvious signs of fear, though she rocks back and forth slightly as our escort heads to the other bowl for the first male tribute. I'm still trying to analyze Seebee, and trying not to look relieved that it's not my sister standing up here when Gloria reads the second name. Jakson Redden, our mayor's thirteen-year-old son, is shaking from head to foot and stumbles on the second stair as he makes his way to the stage. I glance at his father, a decent man who went out of his way to help the people displaced from jobs and homes after the fires and wonder for the first time if I'm not the only one whose relative has extra entries in the reaping. Redden's face is as ashen as his son's, though from the resigned expression I assume like me he had a notion of forewarning.

A flash of color as Gloria heads back to the girls' bowl makes my stomach drop again, though not as much as before. After all, I've already seen that Balia's reaping is not inevitable. Really the odds are still in our favor, and she just has to avoid this one more pull and we're safe.

This time I'm so convinced that it won't be her that I audibly gasp when she is called. From the corner of my eye I see Beetee half-extend his hand, then draw it back. On the other side I catch a glimpse of motion, Mayor Redden shaking his head. But the main thing my eyes focus on is my beautiful, gentle, kind little sister fighting to stay strong as she wends her way past the other fourteen-year-olds. Dimly I register a murmur through the crowd. A low mutter of unease that doesn't quell until long after Balia has taken her place and I realize suddenly that it's too obvious. If just one of them was reaped, perhaps it could be taken as chance. But no-one in our district has ever been accused of being stupid and even those who aren't gifted at maths know that seeing the mayor's only son and the younger sister of a victor just two years after their Games, two children who absolutely have no additional tesserae entries, called in the same year would require astronomical odds.

The fourth boy, an underfed seventeen-year-old who tries a desperate lunge away from the peacekeepers and gets a punch to the guts and dragged to the stage for his trouble rounds out our group of unfortunates. Mayor Redden somehow finds the strength to stand and read the Treaty, as he is required to do, though his voice—usually a mumbling monotone—catches several times and more than once I see him forcing himself not to turn and look at his young son, standing just a few yards to his right beside my sister.

As he finishes the speech he suddenly can't seem to look at any of them and mumbles at his feet that the four are to shake hands, and after a few seconds of awkward shuffling they are guided by the nearby peacekeepers into the justice building. Balia tries to smile at me as she walks past, but I can see her lip quivering already. I try to stand and follow them, but my legs are suddenly lead weights and it takes Beetee's helping hand to get to my feet. Once I'm up I'm suddenly unsure where to go or what to do. Last year I spent this time with my family before being driven over to the train. But this year my family will be in the Justice Building just behind me, waiting to say a probable goodbye to…

I can't even finish the thought. I've spent these last weeks imagining this scenario and trying to steel my heart against it, yet I still can't quite rationalize that my little Balia is going to be forced to fight and possibly die in the Games. That for the rest of the family, barring a miracle, this is the last hour they will ever spend with her. I should be there with her, with them, I decide, but when I try to enter the Justice Building a peacekeeper blocks the doorway.

"Mentors are to go with your escort to the train now. The tributes will join you later."

"But I …family…"

"Now," he repeats firmly and pushes against my shoulder, causing me to stumble and fall backwards. The concrete steps are smooth compared to the roads and sidewalks but I still feel the immediate sting in my hands. An arm loops around my chest to pull me upright and my mind immediately flips back into the Games.

I can already smell blood, the blood on my hands from the thorny hedge as one of the Careers tries to drag me upright so that he can kill me. A part of me is trying to beg with him to let me die in the place of my sister, except she's not actually there. He's yelling at me, words that don't make sense and grabbing me tighter so I fight back with fingernails and teeth. I taste blood at one point and twist away to avoid the stabbing point of the spear that should follow. Distantly I hear a high pitched screaming, incoherent and feral and I come back enough to realize it's me making the sound when a sharp jab in-between my shoulder blades sends the world into spiraling blackness.


	23. Chapter 23

I wake to a vibrating clatter and a throbbing head. Strange sharp-edged shadows and an irregularly flickering light fill my vision and it takes me a few minutes to realize I'm lying down in my bed. On a moving train. A sharp pain spikes through my skull as I sit up, pushing aside the tight silky sheets that are practically binding me to the bed. My shoulder twinges as I prop myself up on my right arm and I feel a spreading ache across my chest as I finally get upright and try to stretch out. The flickering resolves itself as a gap in the mostly-drawn curtains, bright early-afternoon sunlight through a long line of trees.

Which means we're likely passing through District Two, already a few hours into our journey. My head spins again as I try to stand. My bags with their pills are at the far end of the compartment and eventually I give in and crawl to them, closing my eyes and letting my fingers hunt through until I find a packet of painkiller tablets. I dry-swallow them, gagging slightly and as I sit back against the cool wall waiting for the gentle ebb to take effect. I feel a strange tickle of cloth around my upper arm and neck and glance down to see a large tear through the shoulder of my silk shirt, with reddish bruising already starting to show on the skin below it.

Once the worst of the throbbing stops I drag myself up and find a new shirt, staggering out into the corridor as the train lurches slightly, making me stumble into a wall. One of the white-clad Games staff taps me on the shoulder, and I barely restrain myself from striking them. He offers me his arm and I lean on him for support all the way to the food carriage.

The others are already eating and Balia rushes to my side to help me to the empty seat beside her, asking if I'm ok. The other girl, Seebee Lau glares at both of us.

"It's not fair," she announces as Balia starts loading up a plate for me. "She's supposed to be my mentor but she doesn't care about me at all."

I clasp Balia's wrist when she opens her mouth to reply. The two boys lower their eyes, staring at their half-empty plates.

"If the Games were fair," Beetee tells her in a low, controlled voice, "Then the districts would take turns having victors. Be thankful our district has at least two mentors."

Seebee sits back, but continues scowling. I can't really say anything since she is right. As long as my sister is still alive I don't particularly care about what happens to our second girl tribute. Or the boys for that matter.

"Look, once you get past the…the confusion at the start of the Games we'll see how things stand. Usually at that point both mentors will help each other out," Beetee says, forcing a smile.

"You mean you wait to see which of us is dead before deciding who is worth the effort?" Seebee snaps back, ignoring Gloria's gasp and the flinch from the younger boy at the word 'dead'.  
"Victor sister, rich family. Always had enough to eat. Clearly I don't get any chance."

She shoves her seat back and storms off, back towards her compartment. I watch her go, trying to analyze her as if she were not competing directly against my sister. She has the fight, the attitude, at least on the surface. But she's not pretty, she's apparently not charming and is three inches shorter than my sister, despite being several years older. Like little Allasan last year, I doubt she ever had a chance.

"So," Balia says decisively into the drawn silence, "should we maybe talk about teaming up? You know, being allies or something?"

The older boy Tyan Newen snorts. He's got a little bit of scrawny muscle on his thin frame and, from his attempt to run at the reaping, has at least a little bit of initiative.

"I'm not risking my neck trying to keep two little brats safe."

He also stands, though takes his plate and re-fills it from the food station before leaving as well. Jakson Redden, the other boy, who has spent the entire meal so far staring resolutely at his hands or his food, manages a small glance up.

"I'll ally with you," he offers quietly, "though I don't think I'll be much help. They were really mad at my dad after-"

He blanches and goes back to staring at his food while the rest of us mentally finish his sentence.

Once we're all done picking at the food Balia joins me in my room, sitting on the bed, her legs curled over mine as we both read away the journey, enjoying each-other's silent company. Amongst my usual mystery novels I packed in one of her books, figuring that if she didn't get reaped it would give me something else to read once our tributes were dead.

When Gloria knocks to tell us that we'll be arriving imminently I give my sister one last hug before directing her to join the others at the window, ready to wave to the crowd. As the little sister of a victor, she will get more attention (and hopefully sponsors) than any other girl from Three might. Maybe if we are really lucky that might be enough to help pull of this desperate miracle.

~xXx~

The Capitol is abuzz with discussion about the reapings, which have finished airing live, though we aren't permitted to see them yet. Another of their "fairness" rulings—all district groups have to wait until the official replay in the late afternoon.

The rooms in the Remake Centre look much the same, though the theme has changed again. Last year's maze spirals and fuzzy green landscapes have been replaced with animal skin prints and long, eerie silhouette paintings of lone trees in grasslands. The large, comfortable beds in the tribute rooms have been replaced with a pair of smaller, light-framed cots, though Balia immediately asks and I agree to let her share my room instead. In case the worst happens I want to spend as much time as possible with her, and I also don't trust the nasty older girl not to try and hurt her if they were left alone together.

Beetee suggests that we all let our late lunch settle a bit longer and wait until after the replays for dinner. Gloria natters at him for a bit but ultimately agrees and disappears to re-schedule the servers. I do make use of the drinks machine in my room and Balia and I settle in to the middle couch to watch the replays with several hot chocolates swirling in our stomachs. I already have my note-pad in hand, for once determined to catch every single detail about the other tributes.

My concentration is broken almost immediately when they give us a panoramic shot of the District One reaping pens and I see a face from a few of my nightmares standing front and center.

"No," I gasp, "She can't. She-"

I look to Beetee who has also recognized her and is shaking his head.

"Sometimes they do try to volunteer when younger. She could well be eighteen still," he says sadly as we watch Jasper Noble's tall, athletic sister stretching her legs in preparation for her volunteering run. Last year I was so glad to see her beaten by another girl. Now I wish more than anything that she had been the one cut down by Brutus instead. The last thing I need in the arena with my little sister is the blood relative of the boy I killed to claim my crown.

I clench the couch so tightly that my hands begin to ache and, for a moment I have hope as the girl stumbles. Any other year and she would have missed out again, but a savage elbow to her neighbor and a good leap up the stairs lands Amber Noble the second volunteer position.

The smaller, though broad-shouldered girl named Felicia who even beat the second boy to the stage, offers Amber a high-five as they are announced to the crowd, suggesting they are already friendly enough allies. The two boys—Garnet Yale and Chiffon McMaster—stand together as well, though they both throw challenging glances at the pair of girls. While discussing this unusual Games, Beetee suggested that he wouldn't be surprised to see the Career pack split early. With so many extra egos involved, I suspect he's probably right. Which is all to our benefit.

The tributes from District Two appear to be pre-selected volunteers as always. The boys, burly Uriah Gormett and lithe Caldinus Moore bump knuckles as they head up the stage stairs together. The first girl volunteer—Ophelia Langley—is already walking up the stairs before the second one almost reluctantly puts herself forward. Honoria Nohvera. The name takes me a moment to place, though I do recall why a few seconds before the camera pans to the faces of her father and brother, seated amongst their victors. I remember Arturus talking about how his siblings were always careful to place at least second in their 'reaping trials' but this year second isn't enough to stay safe from the Games. Almost as bad as Jasper's sister, now Balia isn't even the only victor's relative. It's one less card to play.

I swallow heavily as our own reaping plays out. Tyan smirks when he sees himself make a desperate dive to escape until he notices Beetee frowning at him.

"What," he says, "At least they know I've got the guts to try something."

"You can't run away from the arena," Beetee reminds him. "And I doubt getting beaten up by peacekeepers is going to make you a believable fighter in anyone's mind."

Tyan sits back with a scowl to match the one Seebee has been wearing all day.

The younger girl and boy are replaced by volunteers in District Four, though Aurora Santes and Cruz Palmer are left to fend for themselves. In Five the Escort takes four attempts to pronounce the first girl's name, resulting in Perianna Parkerson taking the stage in a wave of smothered giggles. She is joined by a girl so dark she could pass in Eleven, and two boys who are smaller than Balia. On the stage I can see Diya and Warrick already shaking their heads hopelessly.

One of the girls from Six named Porshia Herck tries to make a bid for freedom similar to Tyan. Unlike our boy, she manages to floor one of the peacekeepers with a punch to the jaw and head-butts another in the guts as two more grab her arms from behind and force her to the ground. She takes the stage covered in bleeding scrapes and winces as she shakes hands with the others. On the other couch I see Tyan's scowl deepen.

The younger boy from Seven is crying as the surrounding peacekeepers half-carry him to the stage, and their smaller girl, a petite thing with bright golden curls and a large overbite bravely fights back tears of her own. The older two kids shuffle awkwardly around the younger ones, making an effort not to touch them or be associated with them.

In stark contrast, both boys from Eight step forward to help one of the girls when she stumbles, and the other girl takes her hand and holds it until the coverage cuts off to send us to Nine. Here the two girls—Gianna Doyle and Salley Fenn—eye their male counterparts with distaste. The darker Sharman Jape and Ulis Redai glare back and when directed to shake hands, only make minimal contact. I remember my trip there on my victory tour, how there was a pronounced divide between the factory workers and those who farmed the grain fields. Clearly that divide has only widened in the eighteen months since.

Ten gives us the first outer district kid that the commentators—the ever-present Caesar Flickerman and his new co-host Claudius Templesmith—really get excited about. Tall, athletic Trey Fuller could easily pass as a Career and he throws a smile and a wave as he takes the stage, apparently un-phased that he has been called to his probable death.

Bluebell Smith from Eleven is easily the prettiest girl in the reaping, a busty seventeen-year-old who probably already has drunken punters toasting her name. Their youngest boy, a thirteen-year-old named Daucus looks like he might fall to a healthy breeze. Finally Twelve, where a lean, feisty blonde named Maysilee stands out amongst the three sullen, dark-haired others. The camera pans to the crowd where a girl who looks just like the tribute falls into the arms of another, sobbing. I swallow the lump in my own throat—I too may be losing a sister I love and would willingly die for.

Beetee clears his throat, nudging me back into the present and I hurriedly scribble down the names and my first impressions of the District Twelve tributes before glancing back up the list. So many names. So many innocent lives lost for the sake of this harsh peace and for the entertainment of others. I close the book with a sigh; I have already memorized it all anyway, for all the good it will do.

I force myself to eat, putting on a good face for the sake of our tributes. Gloria chatters, mostly to empty air as the rest of us focus on our meals, though once she starts in on the newest Summer fashion collection Balia joins in with over-exaggerated enthusiasm. Probably trying to get her head clear.

I let mine be filled with everything we know so far, trying to let it all tumble together in a way that will help us survive. Diya claims she can do this to predict the most likely victors in any given year, though she did admit to getting it wrong my year. All I can see is the faces of the tributes, some twisted in fear or anger, others gloating as they stand over my sister's lifeless body.

~xXx~

By the end of the second day of training Balia has managed to charm two more people into her alliance of underdogs. She took Jakson's offer of alliance at his word, helping the smaller boy keep his balance during the chariot ride and deflecting several taunts from Tyan during our first night in the Training Center. This time we are informed that she and I must stay in our separate assigned rooms, with the doors automatically locked between midnight and six. At breakfast before their first training day I see several scratches on the side of her face. I'm about to say something when I see Seebee hobble out behind her, limping slightly, the left side of her face starting to bruise. Beetee raises his eyebrows as they both take seats at opposite ends of the table. Balia grins at him and says, "She fell over and I tried to catch her."

"Of course," he replies mildly. "I suggest you both try to avoid any further falls, however."

My sister smiles into her breakfast while the older girl glares. I wonder what happened to my little meek Balia. Less than three months of "training," if you could even call it that seems to have given her so much confidence and strength. I wonder if that's what drives some of the Career kids, at least in the beginning.

I spend the morning of the first day in the Sponsor Hall, hoping to grab the interest of someone, anyone. One older lady who says she simply adored my sister during interviews in my Games offers me a small sum which would buy some food on the first night. A shy boy with his mother donates half his yearly pocket money—about a third of the first lady's gift—to "my pretty younger sister, who is probably smart like I am, but prettier". I thank them both of course. At this stage, every little bit helps. I know at least three groups we can call on in need, which actually puts us up compared to this time last year. Beetee swaps in for me at lunch time, after a morning fixing some minor glitch at the Masterson's workshop, leaving me free to go watch the limited glimpses they give us mentors of the tributes training.

I get a few shots of Balia and Jakson talking to the golden-haired girl from Seven and another of Tyan trying and failing to impress some of the Career boys in a fighting ring. I end up spending the second morning at one of the Heavensbees workshops, trying to pick apart a technical diagram and accompanying circuit board that apparently "works on paper" but fails in reality. I end up taking them home with me to keep studying. Something to focus on if I can't sleep again.

I'm met at the door by the Escort from Seven, who leads me over to their mentors to sign some formal alliance paperwork. While some alliances are formed by chance or opportunity in the arena, any that are decided before the Games start allow mentors from those districts to share resources, including sponsorship money which can be transferred to an ally upon the death of the original recipient.

The initial form is just for little Caitri Downer, but an hour after the tributes get back their Escort knocks on our door to add Oaklan Warren, the older boy from Seven to the deal.

"He seems ok," Balia tells me as we sit down to talk through anything she has learned from this second day. "He doesn't like Caitri as much, thinks she's weak. And Jakson," she adds quietly so that the other boy in the lounge doesn't hear.

"But he says he's happy to work with me. Thinks I'm smart and will get extra sponsors because of you. And I need someone big."

She does admit to trying to get the non-volunteer boy and girl from Four to join her too, but both of them are apparently still trying to get in with the Careers. With as much success as our Tyan. "They did let the boy from Ten join them, though," she says. "You know the strong one. Caitri thinks he's gorgeous, even after I reminded her that he's trying to kill us."

She swallows heavily, hand clenched as the constant reminder of her looming fate washes over us.

"Anyway," she continues shakily, "I'll give Cruz one last try tomorrow morning. He and Oaklan were at least talking a bit earlier. And he says he didn't really train for the Games but he knows how to use a spear."

She gives me a shaky smile as she takes my hand. "I'm doing everything I can Wiress. We both are. But if anything happens, if I…you know. Try to get one of the others out. Of my allies."

I agree, of course, since it seems to matter to her. When I try to sleep I see Oaklan and Caitri hacking her to pieces with over-sized axes, and spend the rest of the night tinkering with the problem circuitry.

Unlike previous years, the tributes don't get a third day of training as it is filled with their private sessions. These are also cut back to just ten minutes each, which has several of the Career mentors up in arms. Brutus is particularly vehement that _his_ tributes should have their full allotment to show off their true potential. He suggests cutting the last two districts down to five minutes each since "It's not like any of them are going to make it to the first sunset."

The Gamemakers hold firm, however, which means Balia is free shortly after the second hour of the morning. She decided that she was capable enough to spar with one of the unarmed trainers, and claims she held her own for a good few minutes. She also says she made a simple snare and strung up a training dummy, just to remind the Gamemakers whose sister she was.

She scores a seven for her efforts, the highest of our four tributes, one point higher than her ally Oaklan from Seven. Seebee, who spent most of her training days practicing knife-fighting without much success, claims that the Gamemakers are clearly biased.

The Career pack, which formally includes the handsome Trey from Ten and does not include the weaker kids from Four all score eight or higher, Amber Noble topping the pile with the only eleven. She apparently tracked down Balia on the first day of training and told my sister in explicit detail how Balia would die. I already hate my dark mind for leading me to hope that if my sister does die it's at the hands of someone that will kill her quick and clean.

The feisty girl from Six, the pretty one from Eleven and the stand-out blonde from Twelve all pull eights as well, and one of the surly boys from Twelve even manages a nine. The rest of the field cluster between two (the crying boy from Seven) and seven (Balia, a few of the others who showed a bit of spirit). For her interview, Dido dresses Balia in a close replica of my victory gown as a further reminder to the crowd. Lorcan finds a few spare seconds to give me a quick hug and an apologetic whisper that I have to go through this, and promises that he'll be there if I need him later on. With two tributes to dress, he and the others don't have much time to spare for me, and eventually I stop getting in their way and take my conclusions about the fanciful and clearly faulty circuit board back to the Heavensbees.

Beetee agreed to take all three of the others through interview prep, averting any nasty fights between me and Seebee and giving me as much time as possible to spend with my sister. I don't tell any of them that I spend each night staring longingly at the remaining drug tablets which I know from experience will help me disconnect from the world. Every night so far I've put them back in their hiding place, though I already know the exact trigger which will cause me to give in.

When my little sister steps on stage, balancing gracefully in her three-inch heels and waving to the crowd she is every bit as beautiful as any princess from her favorite fairy-tale stories. She glistens with light, reflections from the hundreds of tiny silver threads woven through her thick black curls and around her neck she wears a jeweled replica of the district token that I made famous. The actual ring, along with the cord I wore it on are already in Dido's care in preparation for the arena.

She manages to keep a calm facade through the chest-pounding, throat-slitting threats of the Careers, even managing a weak smile in response to Amber's claim that she has some unfinished business on behalf of her brother. When her own turn comes to speak she does well enough. People remember her from interviews just two years back and they definitely remember me. She claims to have lost all fear of the Games after watching me survive my way through and that she will never give up fighting to get back to her family. Jakson, who follows, praises her for her courage, which he claims has inspired him to keep fighting too. As the night wears on the faces, despite my best efforts to concentrate, begin to blur. Strong tributes who claim that they can fight their way out of anything, sly ones who say they know better than to stand and fight, who will use the terrain to their advantage. One of the boys from Five goes into detail about taking and holding the high-ground as though he wouldn't lose an arm wrestle to my sister.

The kids from Eight all acknowledge that they plan on sticking together and that they can overcome great odds with teamwork. Handsome Trey from Ten throws a grin towards the Careers as he talks about finding strong friends who he can respect despite their different backgrounds. Meadowlark from Eleven lets slip that she plans on hiding up a tree since climbing is all she is good at.

The smaller girl from Twelve spends the second half of her interview with tears streaming down her cheeks, though she makes an effort to keep talking about her family. Their other girl is full of fire, and compares the other tributes to a flock of pigeons and herself to a bird of prey. Or maybe a mockingjay. Caesar doesn't quite seem to get where she is going and, after a few seconds pause, reverts to asking about Maysilee's twin sister. The last tribute to speak, the surly boy from Twelve who pulled a high score actually manages to get a laugh from the restless crowd when he declares his competitors "a hundred percent as stupid as usual." This earns him some nasty looks from the Careers, which I hope will translate to them hunting him over my sister when the morning comes.

The thought nearly jars me out of my seat. By this time tomorrow there is a very good chance I'll be crying over my sister's dead body. I have to keep up hope, though, I remind myself as we all stand for the anthem. Beetee helps side-track the other three once we get back to the apartment, giving me a chance to pull Balia into my room to say goodbye, at least for now. She makes me promise again to not blame myself and to live a long and happy life if she doesn't make it and to look after Malcy and our parents and…

We end up holding on to one another until one of the avoxes that attends the rooms knocks and gestures that she has to leave. "I'll be watching….always…"

"I know," she says. "I love you big sister."

I give in and take the stupid pills as soon as she is gone. I won't be able to function tomorrow otherwise, especially since mentors of the fallen tributes are expected to give interviews in the evening of the first day. Setting three different alarms, including one which has a vibrate function that I wedge under my pillow I finally manage, with the help of the drugs, to fall into a restful and dreamless sleep.


	24. Chapter 24

I take another tablet in the morning, promising myself that if Balia does make it through the day that I'll stop. At least temporarily. Beetee seems surprised when he sees me eating from the buffet spread in the Viewing Hall and I remind him that I have to keep up my strength if I'm to keep my sister alive. Even I can hear the strange monotone of my voice and he shoots me a suspicious look as he fixes his own breakfast.

I barely avoid a collision with Arturus from Two, who gives me a brief nod as he continues over to the knot of Career victors gathering on the front couches. Two victors who just want their little sisters to survive, though at least his has had years of training.

Diya sits beside me on one of the back couches, offering silent support with her friendship. Beetee on the other side fidgets constantly as he plucks at a pastry. I just watch the screen, which is still black or flip through my notebooks, reminding myself of the names and the facts and the figures and the suggestions that Beetee, Balia and I have been over a hundred times or more.

A flurry of movement by the door catches my eye—Carmenius Fallow, our obnoxious former Escort who got bumped up to District Four last year, is looking my way. With the drugs in my system I can probably brush off anything he says. It turns out I don't have to as Morstan Wake steps in his path, grabs him firmly by the shoulder and says something quietly that makes the Capitol man flinch. The two turn aside and join the large cluster of Careers at the front of the room.

Cupros, who surprisingly decided to come with us to the Capitol to help however he can, joins us just before the screen flickers to life and briefly rests an awkward hand on my shoulder. The lights slowly brighten enough to see the face of Selena Karshan, the volunteer girl from Four as she rises through the long, dark tube into a stunning blue light. I spot Amber two places around, the Career girls flanking poor, shaking Jakson. The camera pans around the circle as the countdown begins and I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot Balia on the far side of the circle from the vicious girl from One. My sister glances around dazedly, breathing deeply with a calm smile on her face, and I wonder if I'm not the only one on drugs. Then I notice most of the other tributes are doing the same thing, even the Careers. I will my sister to focus, and to follow the plan to find her allies and grab a few useful supplies from the outskirts of the Cornucopia before running for the nearest patch of forest.

When the gong sounds she doesn't react immediately, but then neither do most of the others. The Career victors yell at the screen as they watch their tributes slowly shake free of the seeming daze and start towards the Cornucopia. Some of the weaker tributes take even longer, still standing on their platforms after five, eight, ten seconds have passed. The only person who seems immune to whatever soporific is in the air is the boy beside Balia, who races straight down the middle and snatches a pair of knives and a large pack. He's already on his way out towards the forest by the time the others start moving.

The sudden movement helps nudge Balia and Salley, his neighbors, into action. They escape their stupor as early as the other Careers and both make use of the extra space to start collecting nearby supplies. For a moment I see Cruz from Four start to move towards Balia, who is crouching down to stuff two water bottles into her small bag, but she stands and sees him in time and he backs off when she waves a tiny but sharp knife.

A loud scream breaks the air making her jump and startling the last few dazed tributes into action. Balia glances around, then starts backing away towards the ring of metal plates, slowing twice to snatch odds and ends from the ground as she moves around the circle. I lose her on the array of screens for a few minutes as the focus moves to the fighting and killing. The main screen lingers on Amber Noble wielding a wicked axe as she takes out the legs of one of the smaller girls. She laughs and leaves her screaming on the ground, blood gushing from the stumps where her knees used to be. I see Diya's hands clench tightly on the couch as she glares at the pack of Career victors cheering near the front of the room.

Keston from Four and Trey from Ten trap both boys from Six in-between them and take turns toying with them. The tributes from Two are a little more business-like and are shown wiping out anyone who ventures too close to the main supply pile. I spot Oaklan and Caitri, two of Balia's allies trying to fend off the smaller boy from One. Chiffon laughs as he knocks Oaklan backwards with a kick and swings quickly to the side to bury his sword in Caitri's chest. Oaklan rolls to his feet with an angry yell and charges, though his only weapon—a short, awkwardly shaped wooden club—won't last long against the Career boy's sword. Out of nowhere Chiffon stumbles forward and the club connects solidly with his jaw. He crashes to the ground, Balia still clinging to his legs.

"Let's go," she yells to her ally as the boy from Seven pauses to smash Chiffon's head a few more times.

"Just making sure," he tells her as he takes over the pack and they start running. "Bastard killed Caitri. Least I could do was make sure he got his back. Jakson?"

"Didn't see him," Balia gasps as they pick up the pace towards the tree-line. "If he made it he'll find us."

I glance at the tribute photos on the lower right screen, counting along rather than trying to spot his face. Jakson's is grayed out, and when they show a panoramic view of the killing field again I spot his small body barely five steps from his platform.

"Career girls got him," Cupros says shortly when he sees me looking.

Tyan's photo is already gray too, his body among the pile of tributes stupid enough to fight the kids from Two for the good supplies. Seebee is one of several in the process of dying. The left side of her face—the one Balia bruised just a few nights back—is caved in and two long, bloody cuts across her chest and stomach are slowly draining her dry.

The Career pack leaves them to die slowly as they gather up their loot. Caldinus and Uriah find Chiffon's body; neither seems too distraught about losing him though they go through the motions of planning to hunt his killers first. Luckily none of them saw who brought him down, and since it was clearly someone strong they don't suspect my sister.

The camera leaves them planning their attack routes to show the others, starting with the beautiful snow-capped mountain, the high ground that several tributes mentioned in their interviews. Sure enough a good number are headed that way, though I can't think what advantage they believe the high ground will give them. I think back to the old Games I'd reviewed, skimming through the notebook to help with my drug-addled memory, looking for any that centered around a mountain.

There were some that made use of steep cliffs: Warrick's year, where he dropped a land-slide onto some of the Careers, Whisper in the tiered fields of grass and flowers clambering down the rock walls between the flat levels. Denissa and her island of waterfalls and lagoons, Dominic and Pelline's steep canyons. I pause at the note on Diya's Games and glance up at my friend beside me, who is also staring at the white-capped mountain thoughtfully.

"It sure does look like it, but would they do it again so soon?" she murmurs more to herself than to any of us.

Like any of us I'm sure her Games are still fresh in her mind, but in reality they were twelve years ago, more than enough time for people to forget. Especially since most people don't have Royan's hint that the arena includes tributes to the last twenty-four years. With the snowy covering and the summery haze in the air, I doubt many of the tributes would question whether the pretty mountain is a volcano in disguise.

Luckily that's one thing I don't have to worry about for Balia. She and Oaklan are shown walking together now, past the front edge of the forest, well away from anyone else. They pause to rest under a tall, shady tree, drinking from the water-bottles Balia grabbed and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from their foreheads. My sister of three months ago would be exhausted by this much effort but the weeks of running appear to have payed off and she seems no more tired than her ally. She wedges her tiny knife into her belt and sits to stretch out her legs. Suddenly she leaps up with a yell and snatches Oaklan's club, swatting ferociously at his head. His yell of surprise is matched by Olivia, the mentor from Seven who proposed the formal alliance.

"Sorry," Balia says as she steps back slowly, lowering the weapon and offering it to her ally. The end is coated in the smushed remains of a vibrant blue butterfly. "They had these last year, remember? Stung one of the tributes."

Oaklan takes the club in shaking hands and examines it, nodding slowly. "Yeah, yeah I remember. They got Tansy—I knew her back home. Thanks, I guess."

He swallows heavily and suddenly they are both laughing.

"I thought you were crazy," he says as they gather up their supplies and start moving again.

"I am," Balia tells him with a mischievous grin. "Just not that sort of crazy. And I'm no backstabber."

"Good," he replies. "Though with that knife I'm not sure you'd make it through my shirt."

He nods at her tiny weapon and she sticks her tongue out in reply. I heave a small sigh of relief as the camera cuts away from them to the blonde girl from Twelve, who is sitting up a tree a few hundred yards away examining her supplies. She looks to the sky as the cannons sound for the fallen tributes. Eighteen. So, so many young lives snuffed out in just two short hours.

Beetee squeezes my shoulder gently and gets to his feet. "I'll go make the phone calls. Including the Laus."

I give him a brief nod and go back to watching the main screen, which now shows the surviving boy from Twelve watching from the bushes as one of the boys from Five bends over to scoop a mouthful of water from a trickling stream. He licks his lips after the first and scoops himself a second, then splashes his face with a double-handful to cool off. Suddenly he starts gasping and choking, clawing at his throat. Within seconds there is blood pouring from his nose and mouth and even his eyes are leaking red when he collapses head-first into the apparently deadly body of water. The cannon booms into stunned silence in the Lounge, which is quickly filled with whispered conversations.

"I wonder if it's just that stream," Cupros murmurs to me. "Or if all of them are bad."

I shrug, flicking through my notebooks, looking for some mention of apparently good water sources that turn out to be deadly. The only things I can find are the parasite-infested pools in my Games (easily avoided by drinking the flowing water) and in Seeder's Games, when a clump of poisonous fruit contaminated the little creek it was floating in.

Balia and I had discussed the likely possibility of poisonous plants and she had agreed not to eat anything unless she had watched one of her allies surviving the experience first. But the water? I can't think of any reason she or any of the others would question the water except the boy from Twelve who was lucky enough to witness another tribute dying from it. Even the Careers wouldn't think twice about refilling empty bottles.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY'RE TWENTY TIMES THE PRICE?" Brutus' bellow echoes throughout the Viewing Hall, causing a momentary lull.

"He's right," Diya says dully, reappearing at the edge of the couch. "I went as soon as I saw him bleeding but they'd already bumped it up. Sneaky sneaky Gamemakers"

_Of course. Send the tributes extra water bottles to hint that the streams are bad. Why didn't I think of that?_

I decide to definitely skip any further mood-control drugs as they clearly dull more than my emotions. With the increased price I would have to beg extras from at least one of my other sources just to afford a single bottle, with no guarantee that Balia would even get the hint. I figure I can hold off for now as she has her own bottles from the Cornucopia and is making sure they last. Surely they can't force the tributes only to drink from sponsor-supplied water at that price. Which means there must be other good sources. Maybe that stream was the only bad one, or maybe…

The unnaturally blue sky of the arena is punctuated with white fluffy clouds. A few near the edges of the arena are more gray than white, heavy with…

"Rain."

Diya and Cupros both stare at me. Cupros snorts. "It's a summer arena. Blue sunny skies and all that. They're not going to ruin it with gray clouds and thunderstorms."

"No," says Diya, "But they might bring the clouds across at night. Just for an hour or two otherwise half the tributes will die of poison or dehydration. No-one wants to watch that."

He grunts non-committedly in reply and takes a swig from his hip-flask.

"You should probably start writing," he says, nudging my shoulder. "Technically both girls are yours and the interviews start early."

I'd forgotten about first night interviews, a final glimpse at the tributes who went down in the opening hours of the Games. With nineteen already dead there will be plenty of hours scheduled. Luckily they decide to combine mentors where both a boy and girl had died and I let Beetee do most of the talking about our three dead tributes. I still have enough drugs in my system to not particularly care about Seebee or Tyan, though I do feel a brief pang of sadness for poor little Jakson. The replays showed Selena from Four grabbing him by the collar and holding his arms while Amber punched him half-unconscious, then finished with a hard heel-kick to the side of the neck.

Glory Winchester, once again mentoring for One, rides back with us from the studio to the Viewing Hall. I already gave him my apologies for Balia's involvement in Chiffon's death and he responded in kind for Amber's killing of Jakson. "I've never had to do a first night before," he tells me as we dodge the cameras at the front door of the Training Centre. "I doubt he did his folks many favors with that showing either. Beaten to the stage by a girl. Beaten up by a lumberjack and a…a little girl."

I glare at him and he grins, waving his hands to show he meant no offence.

"Back home it's seen as a mark of status to have a kid in the Games. Even if they don't win, as long as they put on a good showing it still gets your family respect and public acknowledgement. Maybe gives a parent or a sibling a leg-up getting a job or a promotion. Maybe a contract, selling to some of their Capitol sponsors. Most kids do it to help their families out of a bad hole. Even getting close to volunteering at the reaping run can help."

I remember him telling me about how his parents raised him to volunteer and win the Games so that they could live a life of luxury. How his little sister married some rich man that only wanted her because she was pretty and related to a victor. I wonder how many of these volunteer kids are actually here because they wanted to be and how many see this as their sacrifice to help the people they love.

We enter the Viewing Hall in time to see Amber Noble cleave the head off Cruz Palmer, the non-volunteer boy from Four, while the rest of the Career pack cheers her on.

"Of course there are some from the rich end of town," Glory continues, nodding to the screen. "Want to remind the rest of us that they're superior in all ways. They're the ones whose parents pay for proper training and equipment. I can't stand them for the most part."

He forces a false grin as his fellow Career victors wave him over to cheer on their tribute pack's continued success. I duck into our private cabin to check in on Balia and Oaklan—both resting again, as safe as anyone can be in the arena, then join Beetee and Cupros for quick dinner.

"You should try to get some sleep while you have a chance," Beetee tells me as the moon rises over the arena and the tributes start to settle down for their first night. He's probably right. Usually nothing too much happens the first night, not with all the dead from the bloodbath still to talk about. I go back to our rooms and toss and turn for a few hours before deciding I'm just not tired. I can tell by the re-emergence of my hand tremors that the stronger drugs are almost gone from my system. I doze briefly, waking with a fearful lurch as my mind shows Balia being beaten to death by Amber. But that didn't happen. Yet.

I head back downstairs, not caring that it's half-past two in the morning and that I'm in my pajamas. I find Beetee snoring gently in our private cabin, his face smudged with blue pen-ink. Out in the lounge there are a surprising number of people still awake. Three Career victors along with one of their escorts are dressed up for a night out. Probably stopped by to check if anything happened on their way to bed. Old Marcie from Twelve is sitting in her favorite chair, muttering to herself as always. I don't know her well enough to know whether the strange sheen on her face and drawn, pale features are because she is unwell, or whether she is just worried for her remaining tributes.

Dominic from Six is sprawled on a lounge, drooling, both of his tributes already long dead. Their stronger girl, Porshia is still in it though, hiding out inside the hollow of a tree. She looks damp, as do the other tributes when they are shown, suggesting my guesses about the rain were right. I just have to hope Balia decides to get her water from it. Not unreasonable hope as she did watch Beetee's Games, where the only real water source was from the rain, and from the pools it formed as the days went on.

Low voices near the door make me turn and I see Arturus and his father standing together, both looking unhappy. The younger man is dressed sharply in a black silk shirt which is unevenly buttoned. He nods as his father rests a hand on his shoulder and murmurs something that doesn't carry across the room. They both pause to watch the screen as it lingers on the Career pack, also resting now. A father and a brother, both hoping for a miracle, just like me.

Justus leaves and Arturus, to my surprise, nods at me and wanders over to sit nearby. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. I spot a reddish mark on his neck as he settles back into the seat and four parallel scratches on his arm as he unbuttons his sleeve.

"I'll do anything to get her out of there. Anything. You understand?"

I nod. I do, though I don't have what he has to offer. I've already lost most of the people I could appeal to in some way. I haven't dared try to get in contact with the few who might have escaped that awful night a few months back. I know from Beetee that Plutarch Heavensbee got away unscathed, but what of Odelia? What of Royan? All those others, faces without names for the most part who I avoided giving up. The charismatic Andronicus Dexter and his loyal underlings. For all I know they might blame me for everything that went wrong. I doze off again on the couch, mind running slow circles around a chaotic mesh of images and memories and wake to the sudden boom of a cannon.


	25. Chapter 25

For a moment I'm back in the arena and another tribute just died. I sit up to check my surroundings, make sure their killer isn't coming for me and find myself fighting with a blanket. By the time I get free I remember where I am and at least I've been quiet about my sudden awakening. Three rows in front of me Tolby from Eleven is bellowing and flailing his fists at imaginary enemies while the rest of the room chuckles. By the time he calms down I can see that the deadly arena has claimed another victim: Jacklyn from Seven, this time from eating what looks like a large, ripe peach. More importantly her ally Aurora, the non-Career girl from Four and Maysilee the pretty blonde from Twelve see her die. The girl from Four scowls angrily and throws away their early morning foraging in disgust. The girl from Twelve, who had been raising her own identical fruit to her mouth for a bite from her hiding spot in a nearby tree-fork, lowers it slowly, hand shaking. Then, to the astonishment of the entire room, she pulls out a collection of darts from her pack and starts jamming them into the ripe flesh, carefully avoiding any of the running juice.

"Smart girl," Seeder comments to old Marcie, who grunts in reply. The old lady is still sitting in the same chair, and still doesn't look well.

After a few minutes of watching the ten-person Career pack argue I slip into our private cabin to check on Balia, though I know she must be fairly safe as she's not on the main screen. The pair of them are awake and arguing softly about a tree Oaklan found full of bright purple cherries. He's hungry and is certain that they are just over-ripe. She tells him over and over that she doesn't remember them as an edible plant from training, so why take the risk, especially since they still have some food from the Cornucopia and aren't exactly starving yet. Scowling, he eventually agrees.

They have the same argument on screen later that morning, this time over an orange-tinged pear. Balia actually takes it from his hand and throws it away, causing him to slap her. They both draw back enough to remember where they are and stiffly apologize. Olivia, the sane mentor from Seven also apologizes to me, since she knows my sister is right and is the only thing keeping her boy alive.

We both get called out to give a brief interview about our little alliance around mid-afternoon, which ends up with Claudius Templesmith, the snide new Games announcer rambling on about how underdogs like our tributes can't seriously be considered contenders when there are so many 'real competitors' around.

I'm shaking as we make our way off-stage and Olivia has a nerve twitching in her eye. We're told there's a fifteen minute wait on a car, so we are forced to watch on a screen in the ready-room as a third argument erupts between our tributes.

"I just think you're being stupid," Oaklan snaps. "What's your great plan, just sit here and starve because the food 'might be poison'? At least your sister had guts."

"My sister has brains. She knows with this many tributes that the arena would be more deadly than usual. It's too early to take stupid risks."

"It's not a stupid risk," he replies, rolling his eyes. "Why did I saddle myself with stupid little kids who want to sit around crying."

For a second she moves to hit him, but thinks better of it. He's a full head taller and three years older, and even with her little bit of training would probably squash her flat. He glares at her as he drains the last of the water from their bottle, tipping it upside-down over his mouth to be sure there's nothing left.

"I'm going to re-fill these at the stream. I know, I know you want to wait for the rain," he says, cutting her off as she opens her mouth to argue again. "Seriously Balia. It's. A. Stream. I grew up drinking from them and swimming in them at the logging camps. Perfectly good water."

Shaking her head she shrugs, defeated. "I guess," she says slowly and follows him meekly down the bank to the trickling, deadly water.

Olivia and I stare at one another in shock. "They can't…we can't do anything. They have us here…this isn't fair!" she yells, loud enough to bring a production assistant running.

"You have to stay quiet back here," the man chirps at us, gesturing to the stage where another interview is already running.

"But our…my sister…"

I gesture to the screen, where Balia is passing down the empty bottle to Oaklan, taking the full one in return. I sit down heavily as she starts to raise it to her lips. A loud bird-squawk distracts her and she drops it to pull her knife, wary for enemies. Oaklan snorts in disgust.

"Scared of fruit, scared of birds. What next, scared of water?" he asks as he takes a long gulp from his own bottle. "See, water. Nothing wrong with it at-"

He falls to the ground choking, clawing at his throat just like the boy from Five. The bottle drops into the stream and floats away as Balia grabs him and pulls him upright, then screams as his blood spatters her face. She drops him and climbs back up the bank as his cannon fires, swiping at her face with her sleeves. She crawls another ten steps then throws up violently as the hovercraft whirs in to take away my sister's only remaining ally.

I have to hope nothing happens during the short car-ride back to the Training Centre and I ignore the yells from the reporters as I charge through the doors to the foyer, where Cupros is waiting for me.

"She's fine!" he yells as he grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me gently to get my attention. "She's fine. Beetee's watching her now."

I join my mentor in the cabin, where he's thumbing through the price-list of sponsor gifts and shaking his head. "They doubled the price again," he says shortly as he points to the touch-screen menu. I nod dully. We couldn't buy her a new water bottle even if we wanted to.

"What happened to…"

"To the bottle she dropped? Rolled away. She won't trust it not to be contaminated. I know I wouldn't"

I nod. Neither would I if I was in the arena. But without water she will die. I trade seats with Beetee and flick through the sponsor-gift menu once more as my sister lies huddled in a shaking ball onscreen. Eventually I spot something that might work: a square of plastic tarp, barely big enough for a poor tent. She can use it to collect rain-water, though she won't be able to carry the water with her. Considering the prices on the bottles, jars and other containers, it's the best we can do. I send in the order, almost completely draining our budget and watch in relief as she uncurls herself to collect the parcel. She also keeps the parachute, though from what I've seen the cloth isn't waterproof. Still could be useful.

She forces herself to return to their little camp-site, the hollow tree where they sheltered the night before and packs up her new additions. "No point staying here," she says as she squares her shoulders bravely and starts walking through the woodlands.

~xXx~

The cameras mostly follow the Career pack through the evening and the night as they try (and, for the most part fail) to track other tributes on the mountain. Several heated arguments spring up about whether they are wasting their time and would have better luck in the grasslands or forests, versus those who saw tributes running towards the high ground and think that the lack of cover will make their hunt easier.

By sunset on the second day of the Games it's obvious that the Career pack has a clear split between three factions. The three remaining tributes from One are the loudest, with Amber Noble as their spokesperson as they complain constantly about scouring the steep, rocky mountainside. They are countered by the girls from Two and Four, along with big Uriah Gormett who all believe that the mountain is their best option. The remaining trio, Keston from Four, the outsider Trey from Ten and Caldinus, the smaller boy from Two are happy enough following the stronger members' lead. While the two dominant groups argue, the three boys get a campfire started and bond over a small blowtorch that Caldinus found in his pack. Trey, whose father apparently makes horse-shoes and does other metal-work, shows them how to start it and they use the controlled flame to melt chocolate over some crackers from their packs until Keston catches his sleeve on fire.

I nap periodically throughout the night as Balia takes shelter inside a fallen log draped with hanging vines and tiny blue flowers. It's an impossible angle for whatever aerial camera they have while she's curled up but the two times she crawls out to drink from her crude rain-trap I can see her shivering. I reach out and brush her face on the little screen as she collects her plastic the next morning, wishing that there was some way I could have taken her place. She continues her aimless wandering through the forest, now armed with a long sturdy stick that she occasionally uses to swat stinging butterflies. One does manage to land on the back of her neck and leaves her with a nasty welt. Wincing, she looks to the sky and I shake my head and whisper, "Sorry." I doubt I could afford any medicine even if they had some.

The Career argument ends the next morning when Caldinus, acting as a scout, finds a trail of footprints that leads them to a cave. The remaining kids from Eight, who luckily had already left to go find food and water spot the pack coming and run. The Careers follow, whooping and cheering, and the chase fills the screen for the rest of the morning, ending only when Indigo and Arren succeed in ducking behind a thin scree of rocks and doubling back up a steep path. By the time the pack realizes they've lost them the pair from Eight are well away. As they are in the foothills the group decides to roam down to a nearby stream to re-fill their spent water bottles, triggering a torrent of yelling from the watching victors.

Ophelia decides to test the water as the others dig out their bottles and dies bleeding while the pack looks on in horror. Belatedly a quartet of parachutes fall for Honoria, Amber, Felicia and Garnet with new, full bottles. The remaining volunteers look to the sky hopefully but receive nothing. When I stick my head out into the Lounge I see Arturus and Glory fuming and shooting dirty looks towards the Gamemakers' private rooms.

Balia and the girl from Twelve nearly cross paths in the afternoon, missing one another by a mere fifty yards through the trees. Shortly after, a majestic deer frolics past Maysilee, who immediately goes on the defensive. From watching previous Games I guess this is a tactic to turn her around and try to draw her towards my sister. Instead the girl draws a poison-soaked dart and loads her blowgun, though her first shot goes well wide. She fumbles a second dart as the deer lowers its antlered head and tries to charge her and by lucky chance connects her second shot. She dives backwards, rolling clear of the trampling hooves and doesn't waste time trying to use the blowgun as she drives a third poisoned dart into the nearby haunch by hand. The deer collapses with a shudder and the girl re-collects her weapons and finds them a new poisoned fruit to soak in with enviable poise.

The boys from Nine and Twleve are much less graceful when confronted by fluffy golden squirrels. Ulis squeals as the squirrel he tried to bring down with a simple sling dives for his face, sinking sharp teeth into his long hooked nose. A second beast starts gnawing on his ankle until his flailing kick sends it flying and he swats away a third and a fourth with a stick. By the time he detaches the creature from his face the tip of his nose is clearly gone and it and the three nasty gouges under his eye are pouring blood.

Haymitch from Twelve ends up with nearly a dozen of the little savages swarming him near sunset and he takes numerous small wounds, though is apparently quite capable with his two knives. The golden swarm retreats to the treetops after he kills six of them, leaving him swearing under his breath as he digs through his pack for bandages and ointment.

I retreat back to our cabin after forcing down some food, feeling guilty as I watch Balia gnaw on a single strip of jerky. I don't recall falling asleep, but end up waking on the floor as Gloria opens the cabin door noisily, calling my name. Apparently a prospective sponsor wants to talk over breakfast. Beetee, who follows her in takes one look at me and offers to take the meeting instead. Gloria sends him off then marches me up to our rooms and orders me to shower and change clothes in case anyone else comes calling. I rush through her instructions, leaving my hair wet and partially tangled as I hurry back down to keep an eye on Balia. I sit in our cabin with the door open so I can watch our private screen on two different angles and the main footage simultaneously. The latter follows Bluebell Smith, the beauty from Eleven as she stalks the girl from Twelve through a flower-strewn glade. Armed with a long, heavy branch the larger girl slides from tree to tree, slowly gaining ground on her smaller, apparently oblivious target. She pauses about ten yards away as Maysilee slows and reaches down to fumble with her pack as it appears to snag on some rose-bushes. Without warning the girl from Twelve drops her pack, spins and brings the now-loaded blowgun to her mouth, sending the poisoned dart flying at her hunter.

Bluebell staggers back, screaming in shock and falls face-first into a patch of deep red flowers. She coughs and gasps as a small puff of pollen rises and within seconds is dead. The rest of the morning is taken up with discussions about whether it was the poisoned dart or the apparently toxic flowers that killed her, and whether Maysilee would be excited to have removed one of her 'key rivals' in the prettiest girl stakes.

By noon I realize I've missed the death of the remaining boy from Eleven, another victim of the Career pack in the foothills of the mountain. The group of nine re-ignite their continued argument about continuing their hunt on the high ground or whether they've exhausted the tributes there and are better off heading back down to the meadow and into the woods. Uriah and Amber nearly come to blows but the cooler heads of the kids from Four prevail and the pack eventually agrees to split, with Honoria and Uriah from Two, Selena from Four and, surprisingly, Felicia from One remaining near the mountain.

The other five agree to head back to the Cornucopia to secure their remaining supplies now that they are aware of the dangers of the food and water in the arena, and will hold their fort for two days until the mountain group re-joins them. I doubt anyone inside or outside the arena believes that the two halves will actually reunite, at least as allies.

At first it seems like the group who stayed had the right idea as they find trail signs of Salley from Nine just in time for the afternoon mandatory viewing timeslot. She holds her breath and remains curled up, unmoving under a ledge as they walk past without noticing her, releasing her breath with a relieved sigh once they are out of sight. She starts to crawl free of her hidey-hole then frowns and rests her hand on the ground. At first I don't hear the rumble over the general murmur of conversation from the Lounge. As the deep, groaning sound increases and the picture starts to shake I hear Diya yell, "I told you so!"

The eruption of the snow-capped volcano is brutally spectacular. Aerial cameras show the birds-eye view as a column of seething liquid fire bursts through the white snow and cascades down the narrow, rocky channels that so many tributes had been roaming. The kids from Eight, Vonnie from Five and little crying Percy from Seven, who had all climbed high enough to collect snow for water are wiped out instantly by an explosion of molten rock. Salley tries to run but stumbles and falls painfully down a ten-foot drop. She clutches her leg in agony and tries numerous times to drag herself upright before giving up and trying to out-crawl the encroaching lava. She's covered from head to toe in jagged scrapes when it finally catches her and screams in agony as it slowly washes over her, igniting her clothes and hair.

The smaller half of the Career pack don't fare much better. They initially appear to out-run the oncoming lava but Uriah takes a wrong turn amongst the winding rocky gorges and accidentally leads them to a dead-end. They aren't able to backtrack fast enough and all four die in agonizing pain as a curtain of lava streams from a crevasse above them to pool around their feet and quickly starts eating through their legs. I step out of the cabin when I hear glass shatter and see Justus Nohvera standing beside the fractured main screen, fists bleeding. His son Arturus is curled up on the floor at his feet, eyes closed, hands over his ears, trying to drown out his sister's screams.

Both father and son are eventually led away by unhappy Games staffers who spend the next few hours repairing the main screen. In the mean-time we get to watch the one mountain survivor, an agile girl from Ten named Clover who manages to climb to a rocky outcropping that the lava doesn't reach. She lasts a few hours before the toxic gasses cause her to pass out and fall to her death in the liquid fire below.

Now we get to see replays of the other tributes' reactions to the unexpected destruction of a chunk of the arena. Most are shocked, though the remaining half of the Career pack quickly start making dark-humored jokes about their narrow escape. Balia, Haymitch from Twelve and Ytter from Five all nod knowingly and continue on with their own agendas. The boy from Five, who was clever enough to wait and raid the Cornucopia for extra food and water once the Careers left, has started constructing himself a tree-fort in the fork of a large spreading oak. In contrast the surly boy from Twelve seems determined to get as far away from the volcano as possible and continues walking day and night through the thick forest. Balia strikes as lucky as I could have hoped for when she stumbles across a run of familiar thorn-wrapped hedges, apparently the tribute to my Games. Adroitly avoiding a cluster of those horrid white flowers that damaged my brain, she wanders through the small patch of hedge-maze, letting the turns take her here and there. Already I can hear the Games announcer reminding viewers of my success in mapping my maze and mining the area around me with traps and snares for protection.

They assume Balia shares my gift of spatial awareness and memory, though I know for a fact she has no idea where she is going. When she settles down just around an arbitrary corner I'm forced to stifle a laugh as they begin discussing the tactical advantages of the position she has chosen and continue to ramble on about the different sorts of traps she can set up using her immediate surrounds. This is amplified when she mimics me and starts collecting the thorny vines, stripping them and braiding them for rope just as I did. I even smile when she jabs her thumb on one of the thorns and yelps. "Wiress was right," she mutters loudly enough for the cameras to hear. "These stupid things are sharp."

I rub my fingers over my hands, remembering all the little cuts and scabs I had by the time I escaped my arena. They all disappeared while I slept away my recovery. I have to keep up hope that Balia will get the same opportunity. She keeps herself busy past sunset, barely glancing up at the sky as the anthem plays. I look away as they show the horrific replays of the volcanic deaths. The mountain is still glowing, clearly visible against the twilight sky and only dims slightly when the evening rain passes over, cooling the waves of molten rock one little drop of precious water at a time.


	26. Chapter 26

The fifth day of the Games blooms as bright and sunny as always. We get three new sponsor calls from fans who enjoy watching another young Ling girl in a hedge maze, enough that I can almost afford to send her a water bottle if the rain disappears. Her basic snares nearly get tested by the boy from Twelve, who regards the twisting pathways blocking his continual march with disgust. Twice he tries to push through the walls, earning several nasty scratches from the sharp thorns, and he even tries climbing over until a swarm of the stinging butterflies descends, forcing him to ground. He wanders through the green-walled pathways, regularly glancing up at the sun trying to keep himself straight, though I notice that he slowly gets turned slightly back towards the forest over time. He pauses at a three-pronged intersection and scowls at the sky, the midday sun directly overhead and unable to guide him and I hold my breath as he takes three steps down the middle path leading towards Balia's loosely defended hide-out.

After twenty yards he turns back and repeats the process with each of the other pathways, perhaps relying on some inner intuition to direct him, or maybe just being sure that there's no-one else around to sneak up behind him. For whatever reason he settles on the right-hand fork and continues on determinedly. Balia doesn't appear to hear him and continues on trying to string up a snare I taught her, muttering under her breath as she fumbles with unfamiliar knots and spindly branches.

We get brief glimpses of some of the other tributes hiding out in the forest as the day wears on: Ytter from Five in his tree-house where he defends himself from a flock of swooping birds. Shelby Jackson from Ten, who appears to have allied with Porshia from Six after being driven from their separate hiding places in the meadowlands near the mountain. Both agree that the forest will give them more cover though they too are forced to repel a nasty squirrel attack.

Aurora Santes, the non-volunteer girl from Four finds Ulis from Nine huddling under a fallen log, his nasty facial injuries swollen and probably infected. She puts him out of his misery with little contest and starts setting noise-traps around the glade as she settles in.

To the surprise of no-one the remaining Career pack splits. Keston, on guard duty while the others sleep, gently shakes his two closer allies awake and the trio of boys from Two, Four and Ten sneak away from their former allies from One. Once clear they start arguing about whether or not they should have killed the kids from One while they were sleeping (Trey is for it, Caldinus against, and Keston refuses to take a side), and their raised voices alert pretty Maysilee from Twelve. She follows them, staying several trees back, her blowgun loaded and ready.

Haymitch from Twelve finally finds his way out of the hedge-maze and nearly walks into the Career trio just in time for mandatory viewing. I can hear Brutus bellowing advice and encouragement through the supposedly soundproof doors of our cabin as the surprisingly savage fight breaks out. Despite being outnumbered by three taller, stronger boys, Haymitch succeeds in dodging the first blow from Caldinus, grabbing his foe's sword arm in a wrestlers hold and biting at the fingers that attempt to control his head. Keston and Trey both leap forward to help, the tall boy from Ten accidentally standing on his ally's foot in his eagerness and they both stumble and fall.

Caldinus wrenches his arm free and swings his sword down at the unprotected neck, but the agile boy from Twelve shoves forward, knife swinging up to block the blade then darting down with startling speed to open Caldinus' throat in a gruesome red smile. He falls back, blood spattering the area, forcing Trey to cover his face as he tries to catch his deceased ally's body. Keston launches himself forwards at Haymitch, bellowing a warcry and is met by a solid fist to the groin as the boy from Twelve ducks under his swing. A second blow to under the jaw with the back of his knife hand drops Keston, eyes rolling back as the boy from Four hits the ground out cold. Haymitch takes a breath and recovers his balance just in time to meet the attack from the boy from Ten.

Trey nearly crunches him, then sweeps a quick strike towards Haymitch's throat that slices the collar of his jacket. Ducking and dodging, desperately blocking where possible, Haymitch manages to avoid being hit until he slips in a patch of blood and slides backwards, arms flailing. Trey lunges forwards, pressing his advantage and somehow ends up with the knife embedded firmly in his chest. Haymitch doesn't get time to retrieve it as the recovered Keston nearly removes his head. Ducking back he draws his second, smaller knife and tries to block the next sword-strike with it. The deflection causes the smaller blade to spin free, landing out of reach in a clump of yellow flowers. Disarmed and overwhelmed he stumbles backwards, trying a last desperate kick at the boy from Four who leaps on top of him, pinning him with his body.

"Payback time," Keston snarls, sword resting on Haymitch's throat as his left hand clamps down on the smaller boy's wrist, eliciting a yell of pain. Then he topples forward, limbs twitching sporadically as the poisoned two-inch dart falls from his neck. Haymitch shoves him away with another yell and scrambles backwards on all fours until he recognizes the blow-gun wielder as his district partner.

"We'd live longer with two of us," the blonde girl announces, offering him a hand up as the three cannons fire. He actually takes a few seconds to think about it and I notice her fingers drift unobtrusively down to her pouch of darts until he nods and says, "Guess you just proved that."

He rubs the thin cut on his neck where the sword-blade rested, eyes drifting over to the hastily dropped packs belonging to the three Career boys. "So, I'm nearly out of food and if you've made it this far I bet you are too? I figured if the water was bad then the fruits and berries were no good either."

She shrugs as they start rummaging through their new supplies. "Oh, they have their uses."

She shows him her belt-pouch of darts, each tip now wedged in a purple berry. He actually smiles for the first time I recall and they go back to sorting through the possessions of the trio, Maysilee keeping up a sarcastic commentary on each item.

I wait another hour before venturing out of our cabin for food, giving the Career victors plenty of time to get over their unhappiness. Sure enough the rest of the lounge is quiet, many of the victors apparently choosing to go out for their evening meal. I sit with Jackie Ledger who doesn't seem too upset about Trey's death as one of her girls is still alive and relatively well. On one of the smaller screens I can see Abram, Brutus and Morstan sitting at Caesar Flickerman's desk, discussing the unexpected downfall of their mini Career pack. They watch the death recaps with the rest of us, Brutus scowling as he watches his supposedly well-trained volunteer fall at the hands of a scrawny, underfed boy. Unfortunately I can't hear his grumpy replies to Caesar's follow-up questions as the sound is tied to the main screen, which switches focus to an argument between Amber and Garnet over sponsor-gift food that she's refusing to share.

They both seem surprised to see their former allies decorating the night sky during the anthem, and decide that the three boys must have fought amongst themselves as they think there aren't any other tributes left who could take them. They both plot their hunting route for the next day, which unfortunately now includes Balia as a primary target as far as Amber is concerned. I just hope that they run into the pair from Twelve and that all four wipe each-other out. Then my sister actually would have a good chance.

With so few tributes left there are enough smaller screens in the Lounge to follow each individual or pair of tributes, so I have no real motivation to get up and return to my lonely vigil in the cabin chair. I get to watch and listen as victors and escorts drift in and out, discussing the unexpected twists of the Games, the newest fashions, the high society parties that are already nightly events for the rich and famous.

With the deaths of Caldinus and Keston, Amber is now the easy-odds favorite to win according to all but five Capitol bookmakers. Haymitch and Maysilee from Twelve both have some believers, and for some reason a few people who claim they have discovered a secret mathematical formula are backing Porshia from Six. Balia, despite her brief popularity resurgence from finding my hedge-maze, has already dropped off the radar, which means less sponsors and therefore less options to help her survive.

~xXx~

The media descends the next day after the pair from One find Aurora Santes from Four. Garnet spots the crude noise-traps and signals silently to his district partner, who sneaks around to the other side of the glade, cutting off the only easy escape route. Aurora, dozing in the late afternoon sun, doesn't stand a chance, though she does land a long slice down Garnet's leg as the boy's sword pierces her neck. Down to the final eight, the special features on each of the survivors begins.

I'm forced to wash and change again, ready to front another interview about my little sister who has so far defied the odds. Glancing in the mirror as I step out of the shower, I can see the dark circles under my eyes and worry lines creasing my brow, testimony to my limited and sporadic sleep over the past five days. They all disappear under a coat of make-up, applied hastily by Juliette, who possibly chatters at me about how cute the boy from Twelve is. I don't really pay attention.

As always I stammer my way through the interview, this time unsupported by Beetee as, as far as the Games staff are concerned, he is no longer involved in mentoring this year. After numerous circular questions about Balia sharing my intuitive brilliance I'm released , and watch in the car on the way back with Glory and Laurela as Kaylee, the female mentor from Six gives an even less coherent interview than mine.

There's a great deal of commotion going on as we arrive back at the Training Center. The District One mentors are dragged aside to answer more questions about Amber and Garnet and their vicious but unstable alliance. I duck behind them and manage to sneak inside, dodging around a whispering knot of Escorts, victors and Games staff as I aim for the Viewing Hall. It's been nearly half an hour since I've had a glimpse of Balia and the screen in the atrium is showing a live broadcast from bright District One, where they are interviewing Garnet's family.

To my surprise the door to the Viewing Hall is barricaded off and I'm forced back by two burly Games staffers who I think I recognize from the combat training stations. Dimly I register someone calling my name and turn to where Beetee, Cupros, Diya, Seeder and Chaff are standing, alongside the Escort from Eleven. "You didn't hear?" Chaff asks as I join them. "Poor old Marcie, she just…went. Fell out of that chair of hers with such a thud she scared the jeeps out of poor Nimia."

Seeder shakes her head sadly as the barricade breaks to allow a trolley surrounded by white-coated doctors pass. "Old dear must have been nearly seventy, and she was never well. And what's going to happen to her two kids? Hardly fair to leave them without a mentor, especially since that useless escort of theirs doesn't lift a finger."

I don't know much about Donella Grant except that she's friendly with our old escort Carmenius, so she can't be burdened with too much sense. Then again, I'd rather the apparently competent pair from Twelve don't get any extra help if it means a better chance for Balia.

We're forced to wait another half-hour before they let us back in and when they do it's for an official meeting presided by Pontius Vellum, the Head Gamemaker. He waits for all of us who are mentors to be seated, even the ones whose tributes have already died, and announces, "It falls to me to announce the tragic death of Ms Marcie O'Malley our dear victor from District Twelve. As some of you know she suffered a heart attack approximately one hour ago and was not able to be resuscitated. Normally this would not be an issue for the Games as a second mentor is usually available and it's uncommon for the tributes from…well, this is a situation without precedent."

He pauses to adjust his bow-tie, glancing nervously around the room as though hoping for an easy solution to present itself. Unfortunately, one does.

"Would you accept a volunteer mentor from another district to take over, at least until these Games are done?" Chaff asks loudly, scratching at his arm-stump. "At least then you'll have a year to decide on your precedents or whatnot. I'm happy to help out now since all of our kids are gone, especially since Daucus and Lark were friendly enough with Maysilee during training."

After some muttering between officials and low, whispered conversations between victors Vellum declares that this is a satisfactory arrangement and bustles out to make the official announcement. I don't particularly like it—Chaff's a better mentor and far more engaged than old Marcie was. When questioned by the other victors as to why he put himself forward he says that he likes the fight that both kids from Twelve have shown and since Eleven and Twelve are close, both geographically and in social attitudes he felt like it was the right thing to do.

From the big screen above, the only fight I see in the pair from Twelve is with each-other, arguing loudly as they continue walking in circles in the forest just to the west of Balia's hedge-maze. Balia herself has run out of food and is sitting in a hunched ball looking miserable. I wish I had something I could send her, even just a piece of district bread to remind her that I'm here and still watching over her. Unfortunately, between the plastic I sent and another price jump by the Gamemakers I can't afford anything on the list. I can't bring myself to eat that night, not while my sister is starving. Beetee tries to keep my spirits up and Gloria continually brings me plates piled high with food, chirping at me that I must keep my strength up if our district wants to win again.

I don't watch the live coverage from Three as I can't bear the thought of seeing my family's faces. I don't want to hear them talk about how they believe and how well I'm doing while my sister clutches her stomach in hunger and takes three tries to stand because she is so exhausted. I don't want to listen to Ezra and Laney talking about their plans to celebrate Balia's fifteenth birthday, now just a day and a half away, with a party the whole district is invited to (Gloria tells me this later; I hide in our cabin, letting the sound-proofed walls block out their voices). I doze and miss what is apparently an epic chase through the woodlands, the pair from One hunting down the girls from Six and Ten all through the night and into the early hours of the morning. By the time I wake, feeling nauseous and uncomfortably alert for five in the morning, Porshia and Shelby have separated, diving down different paths and forcing the pursuing Careers to split also. Garnet goes after Porshia, though he is hobbled by the half-healed wound in his leg and loses her trail temporarily as their passing brings down a swarm of hummingbirds that peck at his eyes.

Amber hunts like an animal, stalking her prey relentlessly until Shelby collapses from sheer exhaustion. The nasty girl from One corners her against a large tree and takes the time to lop off each of her limbs with her axe before splitting Shelby's face in two. The crew of reporters had barely reached District Ten and we see the live footage of Shelby's family forced to watch her bloody, brutal death. A man, possibly an older brother makes an angry move towards the camera and the video suddenly cuts back to Garnet's hobbling chase of Porshia.

The girl from Six lasts another three hours and puts up a spirited fight, but her crude mace (a hefty rock tied to a stick with twisted grass rope) isn't a match for Garnet's long, thin sword and years of training. He catches her arm with his off-hand and runs her through, leaving her to gurgle out her last breaths on a bed of pink and purple flowers as he rummages through her meager supplies.

The coverage shifts now to Ytter Marks, who is whacking his way through another swarm of stinging butterflies from inside his little tree-fort, and on to the pair from Twelve, who have ended up back at the edge of the hedge-maze and are trying to hack through it with Haymitch's knives. This appears to work at first until they hit a metal mesh in the middle which supports the twisted knot of trees. Haymitch throws his knife down in disgust while Maysilee sets out a portion of their remaining food and suggests they take the chance to rest.

This time when the camera pans, it follows the line of the hedge maze as it trails through the forest and my stomach drops as Amber Noble comes into view. She spots it and smiles wickedly, hefting her axe on her shoulder as she says, "I bet you're hiding in there. Time for some payback."

I thumb madly through the options of our sponsor gifts, though another price-hike means that even if I call in favors I'll still probably not be able to buy her anything that would help. I wonder if I can send her nothing, just a parachute which might warn her that something is up, but the Gamemaker I try to ask doesn't seem to understand me and eventually pushes me away with a vague instruction to consult my escort.

I look around for Gloria, for Beetee, for someone who might help me get my mind and my words untangled but I don't see any of them there. Just a knot of older Careers and their escorts, none of the ones I'm friendly with, and the unpleasant Warrick from Five, who likely wouldn't help me as his tribute is still alive. I'm torn between going and looking for someone and staying to watch over Balia, a decision that is made for me when my knees give way and I half-fall into the nearest couch. I tune out the commentators reminding watchers of my Games just two years past, of my desperate ploy that successfully saw Jasper Noble dead and me a victor. Amber hums to herself as she walks, occasionally swinging her axe to lop any branches that poke into her narrow path. She finds the three-pronged fork after half an hour and pokes around at the grass for a bit, before shrugging and heading down the middle path, eyes darting cautiously.

She finds the first snare thirty yards past the next turn and grins an evil grin as she tugs loose the trip line, easily ducking the swinging branch it's attached to. Sharp pains in my arms make me realize my nails have dug gouges into my own flesh and I try to take a breath, trying to remember how close Balia was to this corner the last time I saw her. Maybe she will hear the footsteps coming, maybe she's moved on to another part of the maze, though unlike my arena there's not much of it to hide in.

Amber dodges a second trap and a third, though the trip line around another blind corner catches her off-guard and makes her lose balance momentarily. Balia rolls to all-fours, takes one look at who has stumbled into her path and tries to run, fumbling for the tiny knife wedged in her belt. Amber, who has already kicked free of the vine rope gives a vicious whoop and chases after her, catching up quickly and swinging her axe back-handed into Balia's side. The blunt of the axe catches my sister off balance and smashes her into the thorny hedge with a choked scream. She rolls at Amber's feet, tiny knife in hand as she stabs wildly, though she hits only air. A second blow, again with the blunt of the axe crunches the side of her head. A stunning blow, not a killing blow, because Amber wants her to suffer a long, slow, painful death. I don't remember getting to the front of the room, reaching for her as her bloody face looks directly at her opponent and she reaches out with the last of her strength to drive her knife through Amber's foot. The third axe-blow cleaves through her knife-arm at the shoulder and opens the side of her neck in a spray of red gore. I try to catch her as she falls but my hands hit only glass and I scream in frustration, trying to claw my way through to her, to throw myself in the path of the bloody weapon as it hacks into her body over and over, turning my precious little angel into an unrecognizable pulp.

Dimly I register the hands on me, arms around me, pulling me back, pinning me down, a warm body pressed against my back, a man's voice shouting in my ear. I try to fight him off until I hear the boom of the cannon and look up one last time at her black curls, the only thing familiar around the bloody mess that used to be her face as my world comes crashing down.


	27. Chapter 27

Nothing makes sense any more. There are people talking around me, the buzzing, droning of their words like strange insects, but I can't understand it. The strange warmth, the unfamiliar smell of the person holding me as my body shakes uncontrollably, heaving and sobbing for an unfathomable time. Twice, the old panic swells and I try again to fight my way free of the restraints, clawing and biting and kicking, though the strong arms don't budge and I subside to my shaking, trying to rationalize what I have seen, begging for the monster to come crawling out of the shadows of my mind to take control and let my weaker side rest. For once it doesn't come when bidden.

Silver lights float in front of my eyes and I try to reach out a hand to grab them. Maybe they can lead me to where Balia has gone. More humming words and the pressure behind me eases, leaves me free to move again, though the weight is still there, supporting my body. Smaller hands clasp my own from the front, squeezing gently, the buzzing words slowly but surely resolving themselves as I recognize the face. Beetee. I let him pull me forward, holding me while I cry as the warmth disappears behind me. The strong arms return to pull me to my feet and I turn to find Glory Winchester, his arms and face streaked with bloody wounds from my teeth and nails. He doesn't seem to notice them as he helps support me and Beetee both to the nearest couch. Someone tries to give me a drink but my hands are shaking too much to grasp it. Someone else holds it to my mouth and helps me take a sip, then another, though I choke on the third and end up coughing it back up.

Seeder wipes my face with her sleeve and returns the glass to my lips, her hand gently resting on my head, forcing it back slightly as I drink again. Behind me I can hear laughter, raised voices, loud and angry, a sharp crack and a whining yell that fades into the distance. More faces come into view, Diya and Cupros, Mags, who is rubbing her hand. Even Terentius from Two, who offers to help Glory and Beetee carry me to the lift. Someone gives me a tablet and I swallow it, a part of me hoping that it's poison. Unfortunately I wake up in my own bed some hours later, though not alone judging by the nasal snoring coming from the chair.

Cupros grunts awake when I accidentally knock the water glass off the bedside table with a crash. He offers me a pull of his hip flask, which I wave away, then drains the last of it himself before helping me out of bed.

"It's the last thing you want to do, I know," he says as I sit back down on the smooth silk sheets, shaking my head at his urgent tugging. "Beetee was able to chase them off for a bit, but we've been told you have to face up as soon as possible."

I try to reply that I'm not sure I can, but even these simple words are too much to cross the rebuilt barrier in my mind. Shaking my head again, this time trying to clear it, I try even single words, but they too are stuck. Finally I get out "Red."

With some gestures I get the message through and he rummages through my belongings until he finds the little red case that holds the last three tablets of that dissociative drug. I feel some of the weight slipping away from my mind as it takes effect, though I'm still limited to two-to-three word runs. Even my usual trick of writing my words out, memorizing them and reciting them back as though reading fails, blocking any hope of holding a semi-coherent conversation.

They put me in front of the cameras on the Training Center steps anyway. I reply to the throng of questions with one word answers, completely ignoring the ones asking about where I think my sister's strategy went wrong or who I'm rooting for to win now that she is dead. To my surprise Gloria chases them all away after a quarter hour and leads me back inside, summoning helpers to bring me food and water and something to wipe my face. She stands over me, forcing me to eat and even speaks to the Games production staff on my behalf, who grudgingly allow Beetee to 'assist' me for my outgoing interview with Caesar Flickerman, which is postponed until the next morning.

I sleep another night of dreamless sleep and in the morning I let the two men get on with the talking, adding appropriate head nods or shakes where necessary, still in my drugged haze of apathy. On the large screen behind them I can see the Games still going on. Somehow the pair from Twelve have managed to force their way through the supposedly impenetrable hedge and are peering over a steep cliff. After a brief discussion they agree to split their alliance, presumably because they don't want to end up fighting each other, though Maysilee mutters mutinously under her breath as she stalks away. Something about her district partner missing the point of what they were trying to achieve, though the microphones which usually detect every whisper seem oddly muted. Haymitch apparently ignores her, kicking absently at pebbles while scratching his head as the split screen shows her throwing one last longing glance over her shoulder.

Out of nowhere a flock of birds descend, batting at her face with their large pink wings and jabbing at her exposed skin with long, pointed beaks. She tries to swat them away with her blowpipe until the tube cracks and she flails madly with her arms, screaming desperately to Haymitch for help as she tries to shield her face and neck. She brings down two of them that go after her unprotected legs with solid kicks and grabs another two by their heads and swings them sharply to the side, cracking their necks. The remaining two flit upwards momentarily, then drop to flank her as her former ally appears on the edge of the screen, running full pelt to save her despite their agreed ending of their alliance.

The bird behind her buffets her ear with its wings and the moment she turns to snatch it and twist its neck the other darts forward, ramming its long, pointed beak through the side of her neck. I clench my fists, dimly remembering the feeling of my knife as it sunk into Jasper's neck to cause a nearly identical wound. Beside me Caesar Flickerman gasps as Haymitch futilely throws his knife at the killing bird then drops to his knees, trying in vain to stem the bleeding with his bare hands.

Our interview is pronounced over and we are quickly ushered from the stage as Caesar prepares to discuss this newest and more interesting development. I must doze off in the car because I wake in my bed in the Training Center, mouth dry and head throbbing. As I blink awake, sporadic memories of the previous morning flood in, the sharp pain of them no longer dulled by the drugs. For a while I debate whether there's a point in getting up at all. The brightest light in my life is now gone and nothing I ever do will be as important as she was to me. If I just stay in this bed I won't have to go out and face the thousands of people who are likely cheering for my sister's murderer. I won't have to face my family back in Three, won't have to tell them how my own stupidity got their baby girl hacked into ten separate pieces, her face so brutally mutilated that it's not even recognizable as human. Won't have to go back to a little brother who adored my sister even more than I did. Until two years ago Balia was Malcy's entire life. Even now the rest of us that crept into his awareness were still on the edges of his world that revolved around our sister. How can I possibly look into those innocent seven-year-old eyes and tell him that Balia is never coming back to sing with him again.

I've firmly decided on living out the rest of my life under these blankets when the TV flicks on. Mandatory viewing, which is dealt with here by pre-programming the units to broadcast. I try to turn away, eyes closed, facing the wall but that darker part of me finally swims back to the surface, too curious to know and I give in and roll over. The disjointed sounds which piqued my curiosity resolve into two separate parallel storylines—the soon-to-be meeting between the remaining tributes from District One, and the steady migration of a pack of those carnivorous squirrels from the northern end of the forest towards Ytter's tree-fort near the south-western edge.

The fight happens first, the sudden brawl erupting as Garnet tries to sneak up on his former district partner but crunches a twig underfoot when he's five feet away. The flurry of blows leaves Amber bleeding from narrow scratches along her jaw and upper arm and Garnet gurgling through the gaping wound in his chest. He gasps out a slurred word that might be "please", his eyes begging her to end the pain but she just stands over him and laughs as she watches him die. Suddenly I'm struck with an awful thought—besides Amber there's just the boys from Five and Twelve remaining. Granted Ytter has been clever so far and Haymitch has shown he can hold his own in a fight, but I'm not sure either of them can beat the strong, cruel girl from One. I may spend the next who-knows-how-many years being forced to share a room, a table with my sister's killer. And I have no doubt she will go out of her way to make my life a misery.

I'm not remotely surprised when Ytter's fort gets over-run with squirrels about an hour later, the small boy putting up a valiant fight though he is eventually ripped apart by dozens of sets of razor-sharp fangs and ends up in more pieces than Balia. I close my eyes, head pounding once more as I realize my last hope for not suffering even more mental anguish in the coming months and years lies in the hands of an underfed boy from Twelve who doesn't even have a proper mentor.

This thought forces me out of bed. I shower, change clothes and slowly make my way downstairs to the Viewing Hall, which is relatively full of victors and escorts discussing the afternoon's lively action. A slight hush follows my entrance but the murmur of conversation picks up again by the time I track down Chaff Hazelwood, District Twelve's fill-in mentor. He doesn't look up from his notes as I approach—names of potential sponsors at a guess as several of them are crossed out while others have odd squiggles next to them—and only seems to notice me when he throws down his pen in favor of a large apple.

"Wiress. No point asking how you're doing I suppose. But I hope it's better. Sit?"

He waves at the empty space on the couch beside him with his arm stump. I nod and sit down, still trying to gather my thoughts and force them out. Eventually I get out "Help."

He raises his eyebrows and asks, "You need my help with something?"

I shake my head, cursing mentally at the stupid barrier and point at the screen where Haymitch Abernathy, eyes wild with fear and anger is stalking through the woods, knife clutched defensively in front of his chest. "Help."

He blinks, uncomprehending for a few seconds then his face lights up with understanding as the view changes to Amber Noble, also hunting for her one remaining foe.

"You…no, you can't make calls I suppose, but…here." He hands me the notepad and pen. "Even after five years I still can't write proper with my off hand and I'm too fat these days to go around skipping dinner. " He slaps his stomach which isn't fat, but certainly isn't lean either, especially by my district's standards. "I'll eat and talk if you can write for me."

I nod and take a few deep breaths to calm my mild hand tremors before I set to writing his notes.

~xXx~

After a night and morning taking notes for Chaff and Twelve's good-for-nothing escort, listening to them discuss sponsor calls and gift lists I get to watch with some satisfaction as the hungry boy on screen is delivered a small bag holding three energy bars, a bottle of some rejuvenating drink and some pills which will apparently heighten his awareness. Haymitch stares at his haul in surprise before downing half of it and stashing the rest for later. On the other side of the screen Amber receives her own gift of food and drinks, though instead of pills her package includes a new cream and bandages for the cuts on her face and arm, and for the poorly-healed knife wound in her foot.

The day wears on as their stalking hunt continues, Amber muttering constantly as she walks, eyes darting restlessly from side to side, her whole body twitching in response to any rustle or cheep. In contrast the boy from Twelve is completely silent, and while his exhausted swaying walk has been countered by a decent meal his eyes are still ragged and his arm shakes slightly from the force of gripping his dagger. Judging by the few high-angle camera shots we get they nearly circle one-another in the forest, both ending up near the bit of hedge-maze that the pair from Twelve cut their way through. The background music, a steady beat which matched both their footsteps fades slightly as the screens merge to a single shot.

Haymitch spots Amber first and quickly backtracks along the curve of the path she will follow, ditching his bag and scrambling up a tree so that he can get the jump on her from the only place she isn't carefully watching. His ambush is nearly successful, his feet slamming into her back and his knife flashing down at her unprotected neck as he leaps from his branch. But she is so quick and the would-be killing blow only slices her collarbone. She yells in pain and surprise and slams an elbow over her shoulder, smashing him solidly in the face. He staggers back a few steps, blinking furiously and shaking his head as she regains her feet and charges at him.

As he did with the trio of Careers, he ducks and dodges several of her blows, though he's unable to land any of his own in return. Suddenly he overbalances the tiniest bit, his foot skidding in a patch of loose dirt, and the large knife is knocked flying from his hand. Amber's next swing connects with his torso, the axe-head which cleaved my sister into pieces slamming deep into his stomach. I force down the rising bile, hoping, praying for a miracle. I nearly cheer when the boy from Twelve fights through the pain and staggers upright, smaller blade now in hand. Amber, sensing her moment of victory has come, charges forward once more with a sweeping strike intended to decapitate the smaller boy. Instead he ducks, crying out, his left hand grasping at the savage wound in his gut. The lack of force causes Amber to overbalance and Haymitch drives his smaller blade deep into her face, staggering aside as the girl shrieks in pain and starts wildly cleaving the air.

Had he been holding his larger knife she would probably be dead, but instead she grabs the smaller knife and wrenches it free, throwing it at him and forcing him to stumble another two steps back. Her left eye goes with it and bursts as it hits the ground. I hear several choked sounds around the room, people swallowing revulsion. Suddenly both tributes remember that she is still armed and he is not, and the boy from Twelve turns and runs as fast as his exhausted, badly injured body will let him.

My little sister saves his life. Balia's final act, plunging her two-inch blade into Amber Noble's foot seems to have slowed the big girl from One noticeably. The wound didn't heal properly despite the sponsor medicines she received, probably because she was doing so much running around on it. Four days ago Amber would have run him down in under twenty yards. Now, even with an unpleasant curve of pink innards peeking through his fingers, Haymitch manages to stay at least fifteen feet ahead of her. He even adds some ground as he dashes up the slight grassy slope and dives through the hole in the hedge-wall that leads to the arena's edge. He lets out a yelp of pain as he crawls through, dodging her hand grasping at his ankle by inches and regains his feet long enough to almost reach the cliff edge.

His knees buckle about five feet from the drop and he groans as he tries and fails to stay upright, though his right hand gropes wildly at the ground, reaching for a rock, a pebble, a handful of dirt, anything he can use. Amber apparently decides that caution is her better option and hurls her axe at him, which misses by about three feet and sails into the empty air, but achieves the desired result of forcing him to duck and drop whatever he was trying to pick up. With a final groan he collapses, body twitching in the final spasms of death. Amber turns away, balling up her shirt-sleeve to try to stop her empty eye-socket from bleeding too much and I shudder uncontrollably at the thought of the future days, months and years I'll be forced to spend with my sister's murderer.

Out of no-where the axe comes flying back and embeds itself deep into the ruined side of Amber's face. Enough of the blade hits her neck to sever the artery and she staggers and falls, her throat fountaining blood for a few seconds as she gasps out her last gurgling breaths. Just like her brother who died at my hand.

There's a shocked silence in the Viewing Hall as her cannon fires and the twitching, half-dead boy from Twelve is announced as our newest victor. I watch on relieved as Chaff (and, presumably Laurela from One) are led away to talk to the cameras. The remaining victors in the Hall resume their conversations, though there's a great deal of unhappy murmuring coming from the Career corner.

They cut away from footage of Haymitch being crowded by doctors on-board the hovercraft—he's certainly not the first victor to be hauled from the arena unconscious and close to death, but they like to pretend that they have everything under control—and show a brief replay of Amber's sudden and unexpected death. This too is cut away after just a single repeat, replaced by Caesar Flickerman and Chaff, discussing what prompted the victor from Eleven to volunteer as a replacement mentor following Marcie's sudden death.

The arena is surrounded by a force-field, I realize. One with sufficient strength to rebound anything dropped into it with at least equal force. It's the only possible explanation and would make sense as a way of preventing tributes from finding their "own way" out of the arena. I think back a few days to when the District Twelve alliance split when Haymitch was kicking pebbles off the cliff-edge. I don't remember seeing it on-screen but I guess one of them came back. Or maybe they didn't and he was trying to throw himself off a cliff out of some misguided desire to deny the girl from One a final kill. Either way he's spared me and my family a great deal of continued anguish, though I doubt I will ever stop mourning Balia's death or forget how and why it happened.

~xXx~

It takes them nearly two weeks to get our newest victor fit enough to take the stage for the victory ceremony. Apparently they came close to losing him completely several times, though I hear this through unofficial channels; the news reports only say that he is healing and will soon be ready to continue the show. Chaff practically camps out by the boy's bedside, with Seeder spelling him occasionally for sleep and the odd interview. I volunteer to take one shift when they are both called out and spend three hours scribbling notes on a new electromagnetic propulsion unit while our newest victor tosses and moans in his moderately drugged sleep.

Beetee tried to shelter me from our regulars, taking all call-outs and refusing any discussion about me joining him to 'do my part'. After another sleepless night replaying Balia's death over and over I begged him for something, _anything_ , to take my mind somewhere else. Working on theory alone is probably my best medicine and has given me a reason each day to continue getting out of bed.

Beetee meets me in the Training Center lobby on my way out of the hospital rooms. He's been run off his feet, working between the Mastersons and the Heavensbees as well as a new company who make robotic animal toys for the rich kids of the Capitol. They are apparently a rather snobbish bunch, rude and demanding, and I'm quite glad he has given me an excuse not to have to deal with them. I pass him my notes from the last two hours and order us some food to share while he goes over my working. My hand tremors have lessened enough that it's all reasonably legible now.

Seeder joins us an hour later to let us know that our newest victor has finally woken. "Poor boy," she says softly as Beetee hastily clears space for her to sit, shuffling away his own scribbled notes into his favorite brown leather case. "Doctors wouldn't say much, but one of the assistants said he had a nasty infection. That happens with gut wounds sometimes. He was pretty out of it, didn't really know what was happening."

I remember my own waking several days after the Capitol doctors repaired my punctured lung. I'm pretty sure I didn't know what was happening either. Beetee and Seeder, who were both conscious and relatively healthy when they were pulled out of the arena, shake their heads, not really understanding.

"They were trying to get him ready for the memorial service for Marcie, you heard it's been scheduled for the day after tomorrow?" Seeder continues, smiling at our blank responses.

"Of course you didn't because you were both tucked away in the dark playing with your inventions. Not that I blame you," she adds hastily, patting my arm gently. "But they will stick you back in front of the camera and I thought you might need the warning."

I appreciate it, though I still share an eye-roll with Beetee at her description of our preferred pastime. Haymitch isn't quite well enough to attend the victor memorial. The news channel cites an emotional detachment from his mentor, who was, after all an old woman that he had little in common with. Chaff tells us all in a low whisper that the boy had a relapse after a bad reaction to some new medication they were using to try and hurry up the healing process, and that the head doctor has already been replaced.

As with everything, the Capitol tries to turn death into a party and 'celebrates' the life of the quiet, reclusive victor from Twelve by holding a long winded memorial service, followed by a twelve-hour city-wide holiday that thousands take part in. We victors are 'encouraged' to stay out for a bit to be seen celebrating the memorial alongside the Capitol citizens. I let Beetee take the lead and wander beside him, nodding to the people talking to us and generally tuning out any further conversation. We eventually find ourselves near the large public library where we did the book signing around four months back, and decide it's as good a refuge as any for a few hours. A group of teenagers excitedly waves us over to one of the large meeting-rooms, and we end up spending the rest of the afternoon talking to the science club of one of the larger Capitol schools. Well, Beetee talks. I make an attempt to pay attention and leave with a vague idea of where the conversation went.

Four days after the memorial for the deceased District Twelve victor, old Marcie's replacement finally appears on the stage for his victory recap and post-Games interview. The sullen boy I remember from before seems to be making a strained effort to act happy about his victory, though his eyes are a little wild every time they cut in close to his face.

The story of the Second Quarter Quell seems to be about a smart, arrogant boy being pushed to his limits and taking a rare underdog victory mostly by sheer luck. I wonder silently just what he did to annoy President Snow and the Gamemakers, or whether they were just angry about him using the arena force-field to take out their preferred victor. Luckily this story-line minimizes Balia's role (had Amber won as they intended I expect my sister would be more prominently featured as a necessary obstacle to overcome for revenge) and I only have to cover my face a dozen times to avoid seeing her again. I am technically expected to attend the victory party as a mentor of a final-eight tribute. Conveniently I spot Brutus fuming about his lack of invitation to the party (surprising as it's not uncommon for popular outgoing victors to be invited even if their tribute didn't make the cut) and hand him my entry card. He sneers at me, but takes it and I run for my room and barricade the door with a chair. If they want me to attend they'll have to break in and drag me there, and I doubt anyone cares that much.

Gloria is waiting in the lobby to see us off the next morning. To my surprise she pulls me aside slightly and says, "I…I just want you to know that I'm sorry about your sister."

She glances around guiltily though there's no-one nearby and I doubt any recording devices that might be in the walls can hear over the raucous conversation of the District Two mob on their way out. "I mean, I didn't pull her deliberately. It just happened and when she died…" She cuts off as Beetee and Cupros start to approach from the lift. I rest my hand on her arm and squeeze gently, trying to convey that I know it wasn't her fault and that I appreciate her unexpected support.

She nods once, clears her throat and tugs my shirt collar straight, as though she pulled me aside to fix my sloppy dressing. Her usual smile appears as the men arrive and she chirps at us that she'll see us next year at the usual time, and waves us goodbye.

~xXx~

My family is waiting on the train platform in Three, front and center. I fall into my mother's open arms, letting her hold me as I cry one last time. Father, Cupros, Ezra and two of Ezra's friends take charge of the plain wooden box that is unloaded from the end compartment and arrange for transport to the tribute's cemetery, where the empty graves will already be dug out.

"Wiress, where's Balia?" A small voice asks behind me and I turn to find little Malcy staring up at me, dark eyes hopeful.

"We tried to explain," Mother says as Malcy starts shaking his head, looking around wildly. "But I don't think he ever understood-"

"Where's Balia? WHERE'S BALIA! WHERE'S BALIA! I WANT BALIA!" Malcy's repeated screams tear through the train station as I try to hold on to him, letting his flailing fists and small shoes pound against me. Over his head I see Ezra watching us, and he jerks his head in acknowledgement as I meet his eyes. They have taken away the thing that mattered most to me in the world. In the future they can try to target the rest of my family or my tributes, but I know that losing any of them won't hurt as much as losing her. I see the same anger burning in Ezra's eyes as is welling inside me; I am no longer afraid to do whatever I can to stop them and make this world a better place for all of us and I will spend the rest of my life (and my death if necessary) making it happen.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Wiress' story will probably continue at some point in the near future._


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